he rode it down again. In fact, he rode it up and down several times while waiting for Leebo to finish.
He’d returned to the maintenance level for perhaps the fourth time when the doors of the lift opened and Leebo stepped in.
“Mission accomplished.”
“You got the records?”
The droid tapped his durasteel skull with a finger. “Got ’em.”
“Anything interesting?”
“I didn’t have time to analyze them. That maintenance super came back.”
Dash glanced down. “You still have a cleaning droid tucked under your arm.”
“Yes. I do, don’t I? Can I keep it? I’ve always wanted a pet.”
“You’re joking.”
“Droids don’t joke—not really. We just regurgitate learned responses. Fact is, I may have to keep it. I told the maintenance super I was taking it down to the shop after all, but this lift is going up … and up and up. He may have noted this.”
“So just turn the thing loose when we get out.”
“Bad idea. It’s got a unique ID. If anyone suspects Iwas tampering with it, they could track it down and discover that that’s just what I was doing—using its protocols to slice into the system.”
“You
can’t
have left fingerprints.”
“Shows what you know. In connecting to the MSE-6, I left my own indelible mark on the little guy. Unless I completely wipe its core, they might be able to identify me by
my
unique ID.”
“So? Wipe its core.”
Leebo reacted with a shocked stance. “How rude.” He patted the top of the droid’s metal casing. “Pretend you didn’t hear that, Mousie.”
“
Mousie
?”
“An MSE-6 cleaning droid. Serial number E3E3EEK.
Mousie
seems an appropriate, if unimaginative, name.”
“Uh-huh. And you’re going to get it out of here how?” The lift doors hissed open, and Dash nodded to the broad, crowded hallway that gave onto the port authority’s entry.
“It’s rather a warm day, sir,” said Leebo blandly. “Allow me to carry your jacket.”
TEN
J AVUL WAS NERVOUS . N ERVOUS IN A WAY SHE HADN’T felt since she’d embarked on her career. Before a performance she was always keyed up, always edgy, amped, eager to be onstage. That came with the territory. But right now, she was just plain jumpy. “Jinky,” as Dara would say.
And why not? Before she’d acquired her “stalker,” the most she’d had to fear was a missed lyric, a missing prop, a mechanical glitch. Now … now she didn’t know what to expect.
She stood on the stage below the Holosseum dome and looked up into the vast scaffolding that served as the framework for her show. Flown in the ether beneath the crown of the Holosseum were four separate sets. One was a stylized forest with treetops suggested by vertical masts of aluminum swathed in synthsilk. “Clouds” of zoosha fabric—able to be rendered invisible at a command from the rig master—floated in among the tree limbs.
The second set was a balcony that formed the only solid surface in a cloud city described in sheets and streamers and billows of translucent material.
The third and fourth pieces represented the duality of Coruscant/Imperial Center—the first gleaming and grand, reaching up toward the distant sun; its alter ego dark and enigmatic with edges that were cold and hard and unforgiving.
These, Javul had designed herself. She didn’t openlyproclaim that they represented Coruscant’s past and present, of course. That would have been subversive, and Javul Charn stayed as far from subversive in her stage act as possible. But she was not averse to admitting a little nostalgia.
The costumer brought out a pair of wings and began securing them to her back, carefully adjusting them so they wouldn’t foul the opti-fiber cable attached to Javul’s ultralight harness. They looked like gossamer—slender arcs of the finest metal overlaid with panels of zoosha. A tiny power generator poured colored light into the threads of the fabric and up the length of the tether, cycling through all the colors of the
He’d returned to the maintenance level for perhaps the fourth time when the doors of the lift opened and Leebo stepped in.
“Mission accomplished.”
“You got the records?”
The droid tapped his durasteel skull with a finger. “Got ’em.”
“Anything interesting?”
“I didn’t have time to analyze them. That maintenance super came back.”
Dash glanced down. “You still have a cleaning droid tucked under your arm.”
“Yes. I do, don’t I? Can I keep it? I’ve always wanted a pet.”
“You’re joking.”
“Droids don’t joke—not really. We just regurgitate learned responses. Fact is, I may have to keep it. I told the maintenance super I was taking it down to the shop after all, but this lift is going up … and up and up. He may have noted this.”
“So just turn the thing loose when we get out.”
“Bad idea. It’s got a unique ID. If anyone suspects Iwas tampering with it, they could track it down and discover that that’s just what I was doing—using its protocols to slice into the system.”
“You
can’t
have left fingerprints.”
“Shows what you know. In connecting to the MSE-6, I left my own indelible mark on the little guy. Unless I completely wipe its core, they might be able to identify me by
my
unique ID.”
“So? Wipe its core.”
Leebo reacted with a shocked stance. “How rude.” He patted the top of the droid’s metal casing. “Pretend you didn’t hear that, Mousie.”
“
Mousie
?”
“An MSE-6 cleaning droid. Serial number E3E3EEK.
Mousie
seems an appropriate, if unimaginative, name.”
“Uh-huh. And you’re going to get it out of here how?” The lift doors hissed open, and Dash nodded to the broad, crowded hallway that gave onto the port authority’s entry.
“It’s rather a warm day, sir,” said Leebo blandly. “Allow me to carry your jacket.”
TEN
J AVUL WAS NERVOUS . N ERVOUS IN A WAY SHE HADN’T felt since she’d embarked on her career. Before a performance she was always keyed up, always edgy, amped, eager to be onstage. That came with the territory. But right now, she was just plain jumpy. “Jinky,” as Dara would say.
And why not? Before she’d acquired her “stalker,” the most she’d had to fear was a missed lyric, a missing prop, a mechanical glitch. Now … now she didn’t know what to expect.
She stood on the stage below the Holosseum dome and looked up into the vast scaffolding that served as the framework for her show. Flown in the ether beneath the crown of the Holosseum were four separate sets. One was a stylized forest with treetops suggested by vertical masts of aluminum swathed in synthsilk. “Clouds” of zoosha fabric—able to be rendered invisible at a command from the rig master—floated in among the tree limbs.
The second set was a balcony that formed the only solid surface in a cloud city described in sheets and streamers and billows of translucent material.
The third and fourth pieces represented the duality of Coruscant/Imperial Center—the first gleaming and grand, reaching up toward the distant sun; its alter ego dark and enigmatic with edges that were cold and hard and unforgiving.
These, Javul had designed herself. She didn’t openlyproclaim that they represented Coruscant’s past and present, of course. That would have been subversive, and Javul Charn stayed as far from subversive in her stage act as possible. But she was not averse to admitting a little nostalgia.
The costumer brought out a pair of wings and began securing them to her back, carefully adjusting them so they wouldn’t foul the opti-fiber cable attached to Javul’s ultralight harness. They looked like gossamer—slender arcs of the finest metal overlaid with panels of zoosha. A tiny power generator poured colored light into the threads of the fabric and up the length of the tether, cycling through all the colors of the
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