“I have no witty retort,” Sinjir says. His nerves roil like storm clouds. Worry corrodes him from the inside as he envisions Conder caught in a panoply of bad situations. “Just…tell us what happened.”
“Enh,” Solo says, brushing some half-rotten leafy greens out of his hair. “I followed the thugs. Was gonna sneak onto the ship. But there was a fourth one and he snuck up on me and—” He claps his hands together. “Stun blast to the back. And then they threw me away with yesterday’s garbage.”
Temmin picks some kind of noodle off Solo’s left shoulder.
Sinjir’s about to say something—
When his comlink crackles.
Conder.
But it’s Jom. “—ello? I’ve—” More static. “—gone and done something—” Hiss, crackle. “—aboard the Falc—”
“Sounds like we better get to the Falcon,” Solo says.
—
Jom awaits them on the Millennium Falcon. And he’s not alone.
Sitting next to him by the holo-chess board is Senator Rethalow of Frong. The Frong’s forearms—long and blue and lined with contracting suckers—are bound up with what looks like some kind of electrical cabling. The Frong’s face-tubules tremble and twitch, and its big black glossy eyes contract as they approach. Jom sits, one arm around the senator. The onetime commando’s hair is mussed. Everything about him screams that he’s on edge—sparking like a frayed wire. Sinjir thinks: I can relate to that. And he understands the source of it, too: We have people we care about caught in bad situations. We’d burn down the world to save them, wouldn’t we?
“Jom,” Sinjir says slowly, as if talking to a child. “What did you do?”
“Not a thing,” he says, waving it off. “Okay, fine. Maybe I caused a minor intergalactic incident. Maybe. Nothing that can’t be forgiven and forgotten, I’m sure.”
“Jom.”
“Fine, fine. I broke open the dep chamber and dragged the esteemed Senator Rethalow here out kicking and screaming. Busted my comlink, too, the fat-bellied little traitor. But after that, the senator told me some real interesting things, figured you might all want to hear.”
All eyes fall to Rethalow.
The Frong remains quiet. Jom drives an elbow into the senator’s side. “Go on, barnacle. Tell them what you told me.”
“Our votes were bought,” the Frong says in Basic, the words coming out so quickly that at first it barely registers with Sinjir. “Three of us, anyway. Me, Ek, and Wieedo.”
“We know Ek and Wieedo got payouts,” Solo says. Admittedly, they didn’t know that, but now the assumption is a safe one. “What did you get?”
“A…a trade deal,” the Frong stammers.
A trade deal?
Sinjir leans in. “And the other two? Nim Tar and Sorka? What did they get for their vote?”
“Threatened. Th-they were threatened. Nim Tar’s child was taken. And Senator Sorka’s jerba, too.”
Sinjir throws a look to the others. “Jerba? Help me out, please.”
It’s Solo who answers. “Kind of a…smooth-haired animal. You can ride ’em, milk ’em, eat ’em. There’s a whole subculture of breeders—I once smuggled a mated pair off Tatooine for a private seller. Personally, I think they’re uglier than the back end of a shaved bantha, but that’s me.”
Sorka gave up her vote because her prize animal was taken, Sinjir thinks. How charming. Democracy is well and truly fragile, isn’t it?
Sinjir asks Rethalow, “Who did this, Senator?”
“I…mustn’t say.”
Jom looks like he’s about to drive another elbow into the Frong’s ribs, but Sinjir leans in and stops him with a gentle hand and a shake of his head. Then he kneels down in front of Rethalow.
“Senator,” Sinjir says, his voice calm and slow even though his mind is a hurricane whipped with fears over Conder. “I need your help here. A friend of mine remains missing and I believe whoever has solicited your vote is responsible. They offered you a trade deal?”
Hesitantly, the Frong nods. Its tubules curl inward with fear. “Th-the New Republic hasn’t yet secured the Outer Rim. Frong is v-vulnerable. By giving my vote, I’m earning protection for my planet and my people. You see? Do you see? The New Republic c-can’t afford to extend its protection to us, not yet, not yet, and until then we have no navy, no fleet…!”
It’s not a trade deal. It’s a protection scheme.
That means—
“Criminals,” Sinjir says. “You’ve given your vote over to criminals.”
“Y-yes.”
“Who?”
“I…”
Still it withholds. And why wouldn’t the senator? The Frong knows who has the power here. Sinjir needs power. He needs leverage.