Their contact sat in one of the private booths of the spaceport's last tap-caf, as promised. It was secluded enough from the bar that Leia hadn't seen her at all at first. She'd had to feign a trip to the fresher as an excuse to do a discreet lap of the sparse back room, at which point she'd recognized the woman easily from the Alliance's datafile: a tall, Core-human female, black eyes, black hair, aurodium skin. Aliases only, but Leia knew the woman was from Cinnagar, a mechanic of some sort, and here she sat, slumped against the peeling synth-leather, clad in a well-worn jumpsuit and sipping a pint of deep red Cinnarg ale. She was staring vacantly at her commlink when Leia approached her.
"Do you know if there's live music here tonight?"
Whoever came up with these codes clearly missed life above ground. The woman looked up sharply, then suppressed a laugh.
"I'm not sure…" she smirked. She drew out the scene like an actress, raising her chin and her voice. "Not many bands left in this dump."
Casting a meaningful glance across the room at Han, who would casually follow with their drinks, Leia took a seat across from her target and played along.
"Are you from around here?"
"Me? Just passing through… I'm on my way to Ventooine. Got a hold full Amacrystals I'm going to try to sell there."
There it was. The Amacrystals were, of course, a reference to the purple explosive powders the Alliance was hunting, and this meeting was essentially just a hand-off. The volume had already been agreed upon, the price already negotiated. In the cuff of her left sock, Leia carried a one-use crypto-chip, the untraceable payment she would hand over upon receipt of the goods. From here, she was tasked with delivering the explosives to their allies, the fierce militia that defended the planet Lasan's struggling capital.
On cue, Han slid into the booth besides her. His leg pressed hard into hers, and he handed Leia something dark and foamy in a half-pint – the word patronizing flickered through her thoughts as she shifted to make room for him.
Leia pushed her drink aside. "My pilot – " she began, by means of introduction, but she was cut off when the woman's eyes suddenly flashed wide. Like an electric shock, the mechanic jolted to life. She pulled herself upright and exclaimed:
"Han Solo! What are you doing here?"
This wasn't in the script – hadn't been flagged anywhere in any of the intel, and Han hadn't mentioned anything when they'd gone over it together. Leia's stomach sank. She hazarded a sidelong glance at him, unsure of what they'd walked into. Given what she'd gleaned about the smuggler's past (Wookie with a life debt? Unpaid spice debt?) she knew a chance encounter could easily spell disaster. But Han only set down his glass and blinked back at their contact like he couldn't quite place her.
"Uh…"
So much for survival instincts and always one step ahead, Sweetheart, Leia thought grimly, one hand dropping to the blaster in her waistband. Besides her, she felt his weight shift ever so slightly, and she knew he was reaching for his own weapon. So much for everything's been pre-arranged –
"Nah, you remember me, Solo," the woman purred, unfazed. And in one smooth motion, she unzipped her blue jumpsuit to the navel, revealing the most enormous chest tattoo Leia had ever laid eyes on. A dizzying array of leaves and runes burst out from under her synth brassiere and stretched up over her collarbones, converging in a human skull that disappeared back into her cleavage.
The effect was immediate.
"Sullust station II!"
Han snapped his fingers in recognition, while Leia's mouth dropped open. And though he didn't quite take his hand off his blaster, he did lean back against their scuffed booth. "Shana? Shari?"
"Shani." She smiled sweetly.
"Long time. What are you doing out here?"
"I asked you first." The jumpsuit stayed unzipped. She sat all the way forward now, cradling her elbows on the table so that the skull tattoo pulsed hypnotically with every breath. It was Han's turn to smirk.
"Looking to buy some Amacrystals," Leia cut in, before this reunion could eat up more of their mission time. "What a coincidence."
But the deal and the pretenses had clearly lost their clandestine appeal. The explosives dealer shot her a look of irritation. "Great," she shrugged. "I'll sell you some. Dock 4, berth 9." She turned back to study Han's face, like this was the conversation she'd come here to have. Like they'd been rudely interrupted and no vulgar credit chip could tempt her now. "I guess I'm not too surprised to see you turn up with this crowd. I figured you'd found some bigger trouble."
"It's a long story," Han said, raising an eyebrow. "You joined up?"
Unbelievable. Leia kicked him under the table. Just because his cover was blown didn't mean they should be openly discussing the Revolution in a tavern, empty room or not.
Shani paid no attention to their silent bickering. "I haven't, yet. Still thinking about it." To Leia's relief, Han dropped the subject. He only nodded and drank his ale, leaving her words to fade in the stale air. "Anyway," she continued, her voice trailing, "your shipment shouldn't take long at all to load… You got time to kill before lift-off, Solo?"
And in her black eyes, fixed bright on his, Leia saw an avid, unabashed look of pure hope that seemed straight out of a late-night holostream. She took a deep sip of her half-pint to compose herself. Not that anyone was looking at her. To her right, she felt, rather than heard, Han chuckle. Stars help me, she thought, if he dares –
"Not this time, honey," Han replied, as though they were discussing the chance of rain. He knocked back the rest of his drink. "Tight schedule."
They walked back to the hangar in silence.
Salin Exit 4 It was the type of spaceport that may as well be reserved for outdated Corellian Y-class freighters. Only a ship that wasn't shoddily bolted together would draw any attention here, and no amount of sniper training would ever allow the organic eye to distinguish between the unique patterns of grime that festooned the vessels and the equally dilapidated surroundings. Some of these ships looked rusted right into the ground, as though they hadn't been moved in thirty years, their pilots having wandered off to buy some smokes, never to return.
Leia was outfitted with a disguise to fit the occasion – greasy coveralls, pulled straight off one of the mechanics in the Rebels' own hangar, which hung shapelessly over her small frame and pooled into her boots. They even smelled like the mechanic.
Han had whistled enthusiastically when she'd first clomped aboard. Looking good, your Worship. Who are we seducing?
She wished High Command would send her out with a different pilot. In truth, she wished they'd take her off these supply missions entirely and put her where she belonged – in the field, in charge.
The Alliance had suffered a series of disasters recently, and Mon Mothma had been reluctant to allow the Princess to leave the base at all, burying her instead in the relative safety of codebreaking. She had become one the Revolution's biggest liabilities: for her daring escape from the Death Star, and growing exponentially each month she remained uncaptured, the bounty on her head now exceeded that of all of the Alliance's generals combined. Leia knew she shouldn't argue. After all, she of all people hadn't joined the Revolution for action or excitement, like some of the recruits who had poured in after their first victory. But lately, she had come to realize that motivations didn't matter, only action: and it felt shameful to sit in a bunker while others risked their lives.
I should lead by example, she'd berated the exasperated Generals on more than one occasion, presenting her case in the briefing room. I was trained for this. I'm not an ornament. I pledged my life to the Revolution.
Not an ornament, Mon Mothma had agreed, searching for the right word in the bottom of her stim-tea. A figurehead. You are a symbol of hope, and we cannot afford to lose you.
They talked in circles for weeks. This was the compromise – low-risk assignments that any warm body with a security clearance could pull off. Moving supplies around Alliance cells along the edges of Wild Space, where the Empire's hold was weakest, almost invariably paired with the pilot who knew the intergalactic black market best. Leia had tamped down her disappointment. Watch that ego, her father would have warned, looking down at his daughter from his regal height. She'd gotten what she'd asked for – a mission, any mission – and she would carry out her responsibilities with grace.
Meanwhile, Han seemed to find these jobs hilarious. And the more she resolved to ignore him, the more he seemed hell-bent on riling her up. Going on another scenic cruise with the Princess, he told Luke before one such trip, raising his voice for her benefit. You stay here and hold down the fort.
And so on.
Which made High Command's reliance on the smuggler all the more infuriating – that of all serviceable ensigns on base, he should be her babysitter on these baby missions.
Looking around now, though, she had to admit – he was perfect for this moon jockey station.