So, he lies. A little.
“I’m close with the chancellor. I am an adviser of hers. I can assure you that we will extend New Republic protections to your world immediately. We won’t leave you to the darkness. That is, if you comply. If you give me what I need to know, we will help you. If you fail, this is the end. You will no longer be a member of the Senate. Your world will be fed to the monsters and we will offer little more than a sad wave goodbye. You will be shamed for how you failed them. Which is not your fault. But this situation cannot go unrectified, and so either you help us, or that’s it. The door closes and we have nothing but exile for you.”
It’s all calculated. Sinjir doesn’t know a great deal about the Frong—their world is in a fringe system with a dim star and they have little to offer the galaxy except some fruit, some spice, and clean water. But he does know that the Frong are insular and clannish. They are tight-knit, coming from practically incestuous bloodlines. When he says words like shame and exile—those are concepts the Frong know intimately. And it registers on Rethalow’s face, too: Its eyes dilate tighter as Sinjir speaks.
“I’ll…tell you.”
“Who did this, Senator? And where are they?”
“I don’t know where. I don’t! But I know who. Black Sun and the Red Key Company have formed an alliance. They’ve…partnered.”
Two syndicates. Venerable Black Sun and the upstart Red Key. If the two of them are allying, it’s a sign of things to come. Sensible, in a way. If the New Republic wins a final victory, then it behooves the syndicates to shore up their assets and form alliances against the looming threat of a government that will not tolerate their illicit activities.
Then it hits him. Sinjir understands. If the New Republic wins a final victory at Jakku, the Empire is done. The longer the war rages, the better the chances that the syndicates will survive—they can feed on the chaos and use that time to bolster their efforts. That’s what this is. The vote to delay the war isn’t about politics at all. It’s about the syndicates staying in the game.
He stands up. “Thank you, Senator. Let’s get you to safety.” He means it, too. If the Black Sun and Red Key guess that one of their senators is compromised, they’ll put a laser bolt through one of his eyes. His mind races—the others are talking to him, saying who-knows-what, but he’s not listening. He’s trying to think of a way to find Conder, to find Nim Tar’s child and Sorka’s stupid show-jerba. Would their abductors remain here on Nakadia? They would remain close, surely. Both to watch the vote and to ensure that the Senators vote the way they’re supposed to. Which means they’d be on the planet’s surface or out in space—
In a ship.
He blurts it out: “They could be in a ship.”
He watches the realization cross Solo’s face. “Right. Right! Dor Wieedo’s ship was gone from the docking bay.”
“That’s where they are. But they must be close. In orbit.”
Solo grins. “Let’s take the Falcon for a spin.”
—
Tolwar Wartol spends his time ricocheting between periods of brooding, simmering silence and moments of rage against her. In those latter times he stands and marches about and threatens to destroy her in the media for what he calls her “nasty tricks,” playing games as she does with the political process.
Mon simply sits still and quiet, occasionally reminding Wartol that he is free to talk to the media if he so chooses. “I’m sure HoloNet would be very interested in a story where your entire political mechanism was held hostage by one woman and a small fruit.”
He rages, then sits, then goes quiet once more.
On the outside, she is a calm fa?ade—an undisturbed Chandrilan lake, placid and unbroken. Inside she is tumult and tumble. She knows time is fast escaping. Her delay will not work forever.