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The chime sounds over the door as a stranger pushes it open with a gloved hand. Luthen tucks away a few stray hairs and emerges from the back room with a smile at the ready. The afternoon light picks out the stranger’s wealth in glints: an earring, a belt, what might be a dot of khyber at the top of a walking stick. The stranger pauses on the threshold.
“Welcome, welcome,” Luthen says, every inch the solicitous merchant. “Please feel free to peruse the gallery. I’m afraid our usual curator is away, but I can answer any questions you might have. I’m Luthen.”
The stranger nods, takes a step, and then—hesitates.
“Luthen Rael?” The stranger says, eyes a little too wide.
“Yes, that’s right,” Luthen says. His fingers slip toward an alert button on a nearby case.
The stranger looks around the shop, as if checking that they’re alone.
“I’ve heard that you’re doing a lot of... charitable work,” the stranger says, stepping closer. “With the profits from your sales.”
“Well, we do our best to invest in the community.” Luthen never forgets a face; this one is not known to him. His fingers find the divot of the button and begin to apply the slightest pressure—
“Yes, that’s what Senator Mothma said,” says the stranger, and Luthen’s hand stills. Of course. She’d mentioned she was doing some fundraising. “My name is Yan Denari. The Senator said I should ask you about a Korrusian piece you acquired recently.”
Luthen feels the cold gallery air chill the sweat on his brow as he takes Denari’s arm. His other hand gently touches for the blaster under his robe. Still there. Better safe than sorry, new friend or not. “Certainly. It’s a fine piece, excellent condition for the period. Let me show you....”
--
Wind pulls at the kid’s coat and his long braid as he picks his way across the rocks back to camp, clutching something to his chest. Cinta tosses a glance at Vel. “He’s fine,” Vel says, self-conscious. There’s no sign of blood on him; his blaster is tucked tight in his belt right where Cinta slid it before he left last night. Vel breathes out. Not a disaster yet.
“I got it,” the kid yells as soon as he’s in earshot, and Cinta rolls her eyes.
“We’re far enough from the tower.”
“It’s the principle.”
The kid doesn’t notice them bickering. He scampers up excitedly and holds out his prize, unrolling it for their inspection: a complete floor plan of the Imperial Korrus Communications Tower, so pristine they could probably even put it back. They’re not going to.
“Nice one, kid,” Vel says. “Any trouble?”
“It was easy,” the kid says, beaming. “Told you, they look at all janitors the same in those places. Codes worked and everything. I could go back and get you a uniform if you wanted.” Cinta’s head snaps up at that. The kid said it as casually as he could, but it’s clear he’s been formulating plans—his own plans—on the walk back. Vel knows what Cinta thinks of that.
But Cinta just says, “Thanks,” and holds her hand out for the map. The kid hands it over and watches her walk away with an expression close to adoration. Vel gets it. It won’t do the kid any favors, though.
“Hey,” Vel says, slapping the kid’s arm. “Good job. Get some food.”
The kid does, scampering toward the cookpot, evidently hungry from the walk. Vel looks over Cinta’s shoulder. The map is finely detailed. Cinta’s fingers chase over it so fast that she can’t be reading everything.
“What’s wrong?” Vel says.
Cinta doesn’t look up. “Can’t find the date.”
“The tower’s only two years old. They couldn’t have remodeled that much.”
“Even so.”
Vel waits for the tense few minutes it takes Cinta to find the date; it’s recent enough that her shoulders come down from around her ears. They join the kid and begin to eat.
“So what’s our next move?” the kid says between mouthfuls. “When do we go in?”
Vel says it before Cinta can. “We don’t. We wait.”
“For what? We got the map, we did the recon. Let’s plant the bug.” The kid looks like he genuinely sees no reason not to execute this plan.
“That’s an imperial building,” says Cinta, “and the antenna room requires top secret clearance. We need supplies for that. Real passes, real names.”
“Money,” Vel cuts in, and the kid looks up, surprised. “We need money to get those things.”
The kid looks pensive for once, maybe angry. “You’re talking about bribes.”
“We’re talking about need-to-know,” Cinta says. “Eat and go to sleep. I’ll report our progress.”
Vel watches her climb up to their communicator, bowl in hand, eating as she goes.
--
Yan Denari returns a few days later, robed all in black and dripping with jewelry. Luthen, armed with confirmation of Denari’s identity from Mon Mothma, greets them with a dish of sweets and a hot drink. After all, these little niceties work just as well on recruits for the resistance as they do on ordinary rich people.
“Thank you,” Denari says, finishing the drink in a single swallow. “Lovely. Well. I’m sorry to drop in like this.”
Luthen whisks away the empty glass. “Always a pleasure to see you, Yan. Given more thought to that Korrusian pot, have you?”
“I have,” Denari says, and Luthen doesn’t like the tone of that reply. “I was wondering about the price.”
He’s well-studied enough not to frown, but Luthen is unpleasantly surprised. He puts aside the tray and folds his hands. “I see.”
Denari walks past him toward the pot in question, an unassuming thing near the back of the shop banded in black and red. Luthen sees that Denari’s jewelry is accented with red stones; they match the pot. “I’m not sure I can raise the price all at once,” Denari says. “I have half with me. Would that do?”
“I’m afraid this is a very special piece,” Luthen says. Denari’s face is placid, but he can see a disturbance in their eyes. “I couldn’t let it go for less than full price. I have to cover my costs, you see.”
“But isn’t it better to have some now?” Denari looks genuinely confused, and Luthen bites back a curse on Mon Mothma’s name for sending him recruits who have been taught nothing, apparently. Denari is reaching into a bag. “I have credits with me amounting to—”
“—please,” Luthen says a little too hastily, reaching out to still their hand. “Please. There’s no need for that.” He leaves his hand atop Denari’s, leaning in, and lowers his voice. “Only the full amount at once will suffice. We can’t do it piecemeal. More purchases mean more attention.” He raises his eyebrows, and at last Denari’s face changes: they hadn’t considered that they would be watched.
“Right.” Denari blinks as Luthen steps back. “How foolish of me.”
“Not at all,” Luthen says, biting enough that Denari can surely hear his agreement. He’s never known the wealthy to be short on foolishness, no matter how well-intentioned.
Denari draws their robes up more tightly and sniffs. “I’ll see you another time, then.”
As they leave, Luthen catches sight of an Imperial officer outside the door. Denari nods to the officer and bustles off self-importantly down the street. After a few moments, the officer moves on.
--
The kid is restless. Vel watches him grind his teeth as he prepares food for them, watches him read over the floor plan again when he thinks Vel and Cinta are too busy to notice. He’s still got that hero worship in his eyes when he looks at Cinta, but the flame of his eagerness is starting to burn away his inhibitions as the days stretch out with no word of their next move.
Every day, Cinta drills him on his reconnaissance, testing him for information decay, running him through infiltration scenarios to help him practice. Cinta’s tenacity might be the only thing holding the kid together at this point. Or maybe it’s making him worse. Vel isn’t sure.
At night, Vel does her best to hold Cinta together, loving her with her hands and mouth, embracing her as they fall asleep. This is the best part of a mission: time together, away from the world, skin to skin. Sometimes Vel lets herself imagine that it’ll last like this forever. This could be their life.
“No word?” the kid says grimly as Cinta walks back from the communicator yet again. Cinta shakes her head, and the kid scowls, but Vel breathes a secret sigh of relief.
She’s stirring dinner and warming her hands at the fire when she sees Cinta put her arm around the kid—she’s never done that before—and say gently, “Waiting is the hardest part. You’ll get used to it.”
Vel feels something hard in her stomach. Cinta seems to feel her gaze and looks up, but Vel just turns away.
--
Luthen makes plenty of sales. That Imperial officer comes back in and buys a tasteful pair of earrings for his wife. Marki sells a whole statuette set. The shop is doing fine. If they were just an antique gallery, Luthen supposes he’d even say it was successful.
But every morning, the red and black bowl greets him, and he feels the ache of failure. The camp on Korrus can only wait so long. Imperial troops love nothing more than sweeping their grounds for irregularities, and the Communications Tower will be no exception. If he pushes his luck too much, the team will be found.
He does what he does best. He waits.
--
In the middle of the night, Vel feels Cinta shake her awake.
“Kid’s gone,” Cinta says, and goes out.
Vel is trembling. They have alarms set; they’d have had warning if scouts from the tower tripped them—
Then Vel gets outside and sees what Cinta must already have discovered: their supply box has been thrown open. She knows without looking that the Imperial uniform will be gone. If they’re really unlucky, maybe also a blaster.
“Kriffing kids,” Cinta growls. She tosses Vel a blaster rifle. “We have to stop him.” She starts climbing the slope.
“He’s gone,” Vel says. “Cinta. He’s gone.” She stumbles up after her. “What do you mean stop him?”
Cinta turns and fixes her with a clear, determined gaze.
“No,” says Vel. “He’s one of us.”
“We can’t let him blow the operation.”
“He’s just a kid—”
“You think I don’t know that?” Cinta yells, throwing her hands in the air. “I know he’s a kid, Vel. I don’t want him to die. But we cannot let the Empire know that we are targeting the tower. They get one whiff of us and we’ll never get a second shot at bugging it. Never. That antenna has half the rim on it.”
“You’d kill him for some antenna signals?”
Cinta takes a sharp breath, but she doesn’t answer. She turns away, walking faster than before. Vel hurries after.
On the ridge, the light of two moons doubles every shadow. Vel sees the kid, grey in the Imperial uniform as he scurries across the pale rocks of Korrus. His back is to them. It’s not too far to make the shot.
She doesn’t lift the blaster.
“Give me the rifle.”
“Cinta—”
A blaster bolt fires. Vel grabs for Cinta instinctively, dragging her down behind a boulder, both silent. Cinta’s face is open, startled. Vel feels Cinta’s breath on her own cheek, close and intimate, as if they’re back in their tent. She wants desperately to be there, where she can make everything right. Keep Cinta safe.
There’s a soft whirring noise. Vel risks a look. It’s a drone patrol: a single aerial droid hovers over the kid’s body. Vel can hear the hum of a scanner looking for an Imperial identification code that Vel knows isn’t there. It fires again. The kid jerks and then is still.
“I thought they’d be on foot,” Cinta says helplessly, foolishly loud, and Vel kisses her, tears welling in her eyes, to keep her quiet.
The drone returns to the tower. Even so, they wait a long time before they inspect the body.
“You can’t do that again,” Cinta says, but she’s squeezing Vel’s hand.
“I know.”
“If someone goes rogue and threatens the operation, we have to stop them.”
“I know.”
They clean up and walk down the ridge to break camp. Vel forces herself to think about the warm shower she’ll have on the ship that night, and the trip alone with Cinta. If things stay quiet on Korrus, someone will come back. Someone will try again.
--
“Good morning,” Luthen says as the bell rings, turning toward the door. He straightens, surprised: it’s Denari.
“Good morning to you,” Denari says pleasantly. They’re all in red today; perhaps they actually have been coordinating their outfits to match the bowl from Korrus. An impressive attention to detail, if so. “I’ve come for the bowl.”
Luthen shakes his head. “I’m afraid the bowl is no longer available.”
Denari frowns. “It’s just there,” they say, pointing. “I see it.”
“Yes,” Luthen says. “It turns out we needed some paperwork. Missing a certification of provenance, I believe. We can’t sell it until the government finishes looking into it.” He smiles as benignly as he can, but the words leave a chill in the air.
“I see,” says Denari, words slow and careful. “How unfortunate.” They raise their eyes. “And if I had bought it?”
“They rarely bother private collectors,” Luthen says. Then, a little quieter and more pointed, meeting Denari’s gaze: “You simply waited too long.”
Silence. This is the moment, Luthen knows. Most of them get this far, taste the sting of failure, and turn away rather than take responsibility for their own mistakes. Sometimes they want his absolution. Only a few can look at the blood on their hands and keep going.
“Well,” Denari says, “perhaps you have another... work... I might be interested in?” Their jaw is set, eyes bright. This one is strong.
Luthen smiles, his real smile, the one that used to frighten Vel. “Certainly,” he says, and turns toward the next display case.