Chapter Text
It was just like old times. Four disreputable smugglers meeting for drinks and illicit criminal talk, heads together as they laughed and traded stories.
Though one of the smugglers wasn't technically a smuggler at all, and one of the others had gone law-abiding to an unprecedented degree. Also, the meeting was taking place in a reception chamber at the former Imperial Palace on Coruscant, because the current leader of the New Republic seemed to think that that was the appropriate place for a rendezvous between representatives of the Smugglers' Alliance and one from the New Republic … who had, as previously mentioned, gone law-abiding. Somewhat unwillingly.
All right, it wasn't like old times at all, but that didn't mean that Mara Jade Skywalker was unhappy to see Karrde, Aves, and Ghent again.
Organa Solo had picked the chamber carefully. True, by palace standards it was barely a storage cupboard—meaning it had only one enormous window with a gorgeous view of the Coruscant skyscape, an inlaid tile floor in a mere three colors, and a not-quite-up-to-date holovid array. The Emperor, and the Senate before him, had not stinted themselves.
Still, it was sufficient for the purpose. Aves whistled, hands in his pockets, as he leaned back to get a good look at the polished inlays lining the ceiling.
“I know a guy on Meerun who'd get you a decent aftermarket value on all this,” he said. “Couple of prybars, a little laser cutting, in and out in ten minutes. What do you think, Mara? Thirty/seventy?”
“I think if you're going to crack the palace, you need to set your sights a little higher.” Mara sat down at the table, not bothering to wait for the others. Sharing cramped quarters for weeks on end had long ago ended any attempts at formality between herself and Talon Karrde's people, and even now that things were different, she still wasn't going to stand on ceremony any more than she absolutely had to. Even meeting them in the palace, rather than a cantina or someplace else comfortable, already had her on edge. “There's an art gallery up on the fourth level—Kundri sculptures and a nice piece of Haal'si'dan weaving. Supposed to have been destroyed in the war. Sell it as an excellent replica and you'll make a pile without leaving a document trail.”
Aves whistled again. “Haal'si'dan? I don't believe it.”
Mara cocked an eyebrow as she made herself comfortable. “Believe it. But don't ask for my help cracking the security. There's a pack of Jedi that would be sadly disappointed in me if I did.”
“A pack of Jedi,” Karrde said. “Hmm. I never thought of Jedi as pack hunters. Though they do seem to prefer camouflage colors and ambush tactics.” Clearly, he remembered Myrkr as well as she did.
“They sure do,” Mara muttered, adjusting herself in the chair again. Years of knowing Luke Skywalker, not to mention more than a year of being married to him, and the son of a bitch could still surprise her. “And if I help Aves, they'll all complain about it. Envoys and Jedi aren't supposed to do things like that. Which reminds me—“ This with a small sigh “—as the official envoy of the New Republic to the Smugglers' Alliance, I, Mara Jade Skywalker, Jedi of the New Republic, declare these negotiations open. Comments about peace, felicity, goodwill, good of the galaxy, and so on.”
Karrde inclined his head. “I, Talon Karrde of the Smugglers' Alliance, respond. Comments about peace, felicity, good of our account balances, and so forth.”
“Noted. Glad that's done with.”
“You're a terrible envoy. I demand a replacement.”
“Denied.”
“Then I demand to speak to Chief Councilor Organa Solo herself.”
“She's in a meeting for the next year or so.” Mara steepled her fingers. She was beginning to get a sense of how to kill two sandrats with one blastpod. “However, there is another negotiator available—one with experience in smuggling. I'm sure General Solo would be willing to speak to—“
What was either a helpful suggestion or a threat (even Mara wasn't entirely sure) was cut off by the clatter of nails on tile and a pair of very familiar screeching cackles. All four of the humans turned to stare as the door burst open and Sturm and Drang, Karrde's pet vornskrs, came skidding into the room with a horribly flustered C-3PO staggering along behind them. One of the droid's arms was hanging by a few half-torn wires.
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” Threepio repeated as he tottered towards them. The vornskrs were already nuzzling at Karrde's hands, looking for treats. “I tried to do as you said, Mistress Mara, but they were extremely anxious to be part of the negotiations!”
Karrde turned back to Mara. “You said you were getting someone responsible to look after them.”
“I did,” Mara said, eyeing Threepio. “I sent them to Luke's astromech. That little trash can knows more about herding idiots and lunatics than anyone I've ever met.”
“My counterpart's talents were requisitioned by General Antilles half a standard hour previously,” Threepio informed them with just a touch of hauteur. “I was entrusted with the care of the animals in question. Following my protocols for domesticated pets, I attempted to lead them on a spirited constitutional.”
With a sigh, Mara motioned Threepio towards her. She didn't really care for droids much one way or the other. But in his bizarre, silly way, Threepio was an important part of Luke's life, and for Luke’s sake she wouldn’t leave the fussy droid crippled. Fortunately, old habits died hard: Mara rarely went anywhere without a small toolkit. She loosened the joints on the arm and began to reconnect Threepio's wrecked wires.
The vornskrs had finished investigating Karrde and discovered that, to their dismay, he did not seem to be carrying treats. This was usually the point where Drang would flop down at Karrde's feet and go to sleep while Sturm, who never relaxed if he could be doing his best stormtrooper impression, would assume an alert posture and eye everything in the immediate vicinity. But to Mara's surprise, they didn't.
Instead, the two beasts danced a little in place, whining. Drang pawed at his nose while Sturm shook his head rapidly, as if trying to clear water out of his ears. Then, making a noise like a purr pushed through a rusty grate, they flopped to their bellies and shuffled towards Mara, heads down. Perfectly submissive.
Mara almost dropped her wire cutters. She had nothing against the vornskrs (much less so than their wild cousins on Myrkr, that was for damned certain) but while Sturm and Drang were domesticated, they were only domesticated as far as vornskrs could be, which meant they didn't always bite fingers off. And since they hunted through the Force, their reactions to her could be varying at best. She had never seen them, or any vornskr, do this. Her free hand instinctively inched towards her lightsaber.
Karrde was watching his pets with uncommonly wide eyes. He seemed to have temporarily lost the power of speech.
“I get it, Karrde,” Mara said. “You've been teaching them to play helpless, haven't you? Good trick.”
“I … no. No, I haven't.” Karrde shook his head too, for a moment uncommonly like his pets. “I. Well. Congratulations, I suppose.”
Mara frowned. “Sarcasm doesn't suit you.”
“I'm not being …” Karrde blinked. “You don't … Oh.”
As rare as it was to see the gregarious gambler and smuggler temporarily robbed of coherence, Mara had little patience for it. Life in the New Republic was full of incoherent babblers, and she was generally expected to make small talk with them at diplomatic functions. Karrde was supposed to be a break from all that, not more of the same. “Karrde,” she said as calmly as she could manage, “I would like an explanation now.”
Karrde still seemed overwhelmed, but rescue came from an unexpected source. Ghent, the gangly slicer, hadn't said one word beyond a mumbled “hi” before going to sit in the corner with his datapad; that was just how Ghent was and frankly, Mara hadn't been surprised at all. Now, though, he looked up from his datapad. “Oh,” he said, looking at the vornskrs. “I remember this. Are they supplicant?”
At that, Karrde seemed to shake off some of his daze. He glanced at Ghent, who was regarding him with the usual good-natured vagueness. “You forget to eat, but that you remember?” he demanded. “I didn't even think you were listening!”
“You like to talk about vornskrs.” Ghent shrugged one narrow shoulder. “It's not a bad thing.”
“Council's still out on that,” Aves muttered.
“No, but this is unexpected, to say the least.” Karrde cleared his throat and looked back at Mara, who knew her impatience was showing on her face. “I used to talk to him when it was just us in the cockpit. Drang likes to sleep on his feet sometimes. What they're doing is something I've read about, but never seen. Didn't think I'd need to.”
He pointed to the vornskrs, who were practically nuzzling Mara's ankles. “That's an attitude the xenobiologists call 'supplicant.' Apparently, females of the species sometimes become subject to hormonal rages that make them dangerous to be around. As an evolutionary precaution, the males have the ingrained instinct to make themselves submissive to any breeding Force-sensitive female.”
“I'm not a damned vornskr, Karrde,” Mara said sharply. “I don't—“ Then her brain caught up. “Breeding?”
“I'd visit your medbay sooner rather than later,” Karrde offered. He took an involuntary half-step back at the look in Mara's eyes. “And I'd like it on record that one of the first things I did say was 'congratulations.'”