spectrum—even colors visible only to nonhuman eyes. The little power source also generated an emergency antigrav field just in case the opti-fiber were to fail. In the average venue, the field would let Javul down to the stage gently.
The Rodian Holosseum was no average venue, either in size or opulence. It was easily the largest, most luxurious indoor concert hall she’d ever performed in, and that domed ceiling seemed a kilometer away just now.
She took a deep breath, voice-activated the antigrav field, and bobbed up from the floor.
“Make sure of the coshtumes, please,” said the wardrobe designer, a Bothan woman named Tereez Dza’lar. “I’d hate to have you acshidentally turn thish into a holo-peep-show.”
Javul smiled and murmured, “Act One, Scene Two.”
The pale gray one-piece body stocking she wore shimmered out of existence to make way for a diaphanous dress of sky blue with a shower of golden glitter that seemed to migrate over the surface of the fabric. The ragged hem of the skirt floated about her hips and knees. Her hair framed her face in a pale, lustrous gold.
“Good,” said Tereez. “Try shomething a bit more opaque.”
“Act Two, Scene Three.”
The dress dissolved, and was replaced by a regulation Imperial uniform of the type worn by intelligence officers. In drab brown with gleaming rank insignia, it was about as far removed from the insubstantial fey blue gown as it could get.
Tereez laughed out loud—a sound somewhere between a hiss and a purr. “The wings!”
Looking at her projected image in an offstage holodisplay, Javul joined in. The Imperial getup clashed horribly with the wings, an irony that was not lost on her. “Wow, now there’s a new concept: an Imperial sprite. Think we could build a show around that?”
Tereez shook her head. “I think it would be shuicide to try. The Emperor would never approve. Try the Firsht Act coshtume. The cap was cutting out lasht time.”
Javul complied and faced her costumer wearing a green tunic with green leggings and a jaunty green cap with a bright red feather that nearly matched the new color of her hair. This time the costume accommodated the wings by making them seem to disappear. They weren’t programmed to do that with the Imperial intel costume because she never wore wings with that during the live show.
“Looksh good. Everything sheems to be functioning perfectly.”
Javul looked up at the rigging again, hyperaware of that old show business axiom that the one thing a performer didn’t want right before a performance was a perfect rehearsal. She found herself hoping something would go wrong.
“Places please!” she called to the crew. “Let’s take the first number, okay?”
Everyone faded from sight … except for Eaden Vrill, who stood impassively at the extreme edge of the stage, arms folded over his broad chest, tentacles waving gently about his shoulders.
Dara appeared behind him at the edge of the stage and tapped on his foot. “Sorry, big guy—you can’t stand there.”
With a last look up into the dome, the Nautolan bodyguard descended from the stage into the shadows between two sections of seating, his head-tresses dancing as if in an eddying wind.
Javul felt a tingle of apprehension. Where was Dash and what had he found out at the spaceport?
“It’s trashed,” said Finnick. He returned to the spot in the comm readout where the sub rosa message began. There was no clear instruction there, just a string of jumbled garbage that neither Leebo nor the ship’s communications computer could make anything of. “I’d guess it was programmed to deteriorate after broadcast.”
“But we’ve still got the substance of it on our end, right?” Dash asked.
“I doubt it.” Finnick called up the ship’s transceiver records and went to the time index in question.
More garbage.
Dash sat back in his seat next to Finnick on the bridge of the
Nova’s Heart
. “Then we’re stumped. There’s nothing
The Rodian Holosseum was no average venue, either in size or opulence. It was easily the largest, most luxurious indoor concert hall she’d ever performed in, and that domed ceiling seemed a kilometer away just now.
She took a deep breath, voice-activated the antigrav field, and bobbed up from the floor.
“Make sure of the coshtumes, please,” said the wardrobe designer, a Bothan woman named Tereez Dza’lar. “I’d hate to have you acshidentally turn thish into a holo-peep-show.”
Javul smiled and murmured, “Act One, Scene Two.”
The pale gray one-piece body stocking she wore shimmered out of existence to make way for a diaphanous dress of sky blue with a shower of golden glitter that seemed to migrate over the surface of the fabric. The ragged hem of the skirt floated about her hips and knees. Her hair framed her face in a pale, lustrous gold.
“Good,” said Tereez. “Try shomething a bit more opaque.”
“Act Two, Scene Three.”
The dress dissolved, and was replaced by a regulation Imperial uniform of the type worn by intelligence officers. In drab brown with gleaming rank insignia, it was about as far removed from the insubstantial fey blue gown as it could get.
Tereez laughed out loud—a sound somewhere between a hiss and a purr. “The wings!”
Looking at her projected image in an offstage holodisplay, Javul joined in. The Imperial getup clashed horribly with the wings, an irony that was not lost on her. “Wow, now there’s a new concept: an Imperial sprite. Think we could build a show around that?”
Tereez shook her head. “I think it would be shuicide to try. The Emperor would never approve. Try the Firsht Act coshtume. The cap was cutting out lasht time.”
Javul complied and faced her costumer wearing a green tunic with green leggings and a jaunty green cap with a bright red feather that nearly matched the new color of her hair. This time the costume accommodated the wings by making them seem to disappear. They weren’t programmed to do that with the Imperial intel costume because she never wore wings with that during the live show.
“Looksh good. Everything sheems to be functioning perfectly.”
Javul looked up at the rigging again, hyperaware of that old show business axiom that the one thing a performer didn’t want right before a performance was a perfect rehearsal. She found herself hoping something would go wrong.
“Places please!” she called to the crew. “Let’s take the first number, okay?”
Everyone faded from sight … except for Eaden Vrill, who stood impassively at the extreme edge of the stage, arms folded over his broad chest, tentacles waving gently about his shoulders.
Dara appeared behind him at the edge of the stage and tapped on his foot. “Sorry, big guy—you can’t stand there.”
With a last look up into the dome, the Nautolan bodyguard descended from the stage into the shadows between two sections of seating, his head-tresses dancing as if in an eddying wind.
Javul felt a tingle of apprehension. Where was Dash and what had he found out at the spaceport?
“It’s trashed,” said Finnick. He returned to the spot in the comm readout where the sub rosa message began. There was no clear instruction there, just a string of jumbled garbage that neither Leebo nor the ship’s communications computer could make anything of. “I’d guess it was programmed to deteriorate after broadcast.”
“But we’ve still got the substance of it on our end, right?” Dash asked.
“I doubt it.” Finnick called up the ship’s transceiver records and went to the time index in question.
More garbage.
Dash sat back in his seat next to Finnick on the bridge of the
Nova’s Heart
. “Then we’re stumped. There’s nothing
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