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Chandrila, Hanna City, New Republic Ballroom, 6 ABY
Chancellor Mon Mothma circulated among the guests at the Chancellor’s Ball – the good and the great of the New Republic – as they celebrated the anniversary of the end of the war. She was looking for her friend and personal spy Kleya Marki. Kleya had, without explanation and at the last moment, asked her to add one “Wick Antares” to the exclusive guest list. Mon had obliged, but intended to learn the reason.
She spotted her cousin Vel Sartha, correctly and resplendently attired in her New Republic dress uniform with all of her many medals. The unclassified ones, anyway. Vel was speaking with a slender, dark-haired man in what she recognized as Corellian formal-wear. They broke off as she approached.
With a polite nod for the stranger, she asked, “Good evening, Vel. Have you seen Kleya? I’d like to speak with her.” Kleya’s nominal role as one of Mon’s aides meant she could come and go from such events without comment.
Vel looked at Mon like she’d just told an excellent joke, then replied with barely restrained hilarity. “Good one, Mon! No, I haven’t seen Kleya lately, but, um, allow me to present Mr. Wick Antares. Mr. Antares, this is the Chancellor of the New Republic, Mon Mothma.”
Aha – the name Kleya had sent her. Mon’s curiosity was piqued. The young man appeared to be in his mid-twenties. He was very handsome, with wavy hair and rich brown eyes. A discreet glance downward revealed that the close-fitting, Corellian style trousers set off his elegantly turned legs to perfection. But why was he here, and what was his connection to Kleya? And, apparently, to Vel as well? And why did he seem so familiar?
The young man’s manners were impeccable as he greeted her in a light tenor and the relaxed, flat-voweled accent of Corellia. “It’s an honor, Chancellor,” he said, and sketched a bow.
“Mr. Antares, you seem familiar, have we met before?”
Vel was by this point beside herself with mirth.
“Clearly I’ve missed something?” Mon raised her eyebrows at her cousin. Though, truth be told, she was mostly just happy to see Vel in such a good mood; the return to Chandrila had been difficult for her.
Antares’s voice grew momentarily softer, warmer, higher. “Mon, it’s me,” he said contritely. And made a tiny gesture at his eyebrow.
Even seeing the faint trace of a mole at the edge of that eyebrow, it took several seconds for the clue to drop.
“Great stars, how extraordinary.” Mon kept her voice low and posture neutral in trained reflex, so as not to draw attention.
“That’s good, then,” Kleya said in satisfaction. “I’ll start the mission on schedule. I’m sorry not to have warned you. Things are moving quickly.” Then she resumed, in character, “I wonder if you’d do me the honor to join me in a dance?”
Mon trusted that this would be the briefing she’d been seeking. Mon allowed her eyes to soften, as if her head had been turned by this attractive fellow, and nodded. And, well, who would begrudge her the chance to cut loose from time to time? Kleya was sure to have a cover worked out anyway.
Kleya took her hand – Mon absently noted the gun calluses – and led her to the dance floor, placing her other hand at Mon’s waist. Kleya’s hands were both perfectly correct; it was surely only the unusual circumstance that made it seem a more intimate touch. She found herself inexplicably aware of their proximity, of Kleya’s warmth crossing the short gap between their bodies.
Mon positioned her left hand at Kleya’s shoulder and let her lead the dance, one which fortunately permitted them to speak quietly with one another throughout, heads close together. “However did you manage this?”
“The makeup and eyebrow adhesive will last a week, and this covert operation shouldn’t take more than a day or two. The suit’s shoulders are padded. Lifts in the boots. I did have to cut my hair, but that doesn’t matter.”
“Just remarkable work. I truly didn’t recognize you, and we’ve known each other for years.”
Kleya didn’t quite preen at the compliment, but permitted her expression to soften slightly in satisfaction. “Luthen was surprisingly knowledgeable about makeup and disguise, and made sure I was as well.”
“And who is ‘Wick Antares’?”
“Wick is about to join a Corellian smuggling syndicate. He’s going to provide the New Republic’s revenue service with all sorts of useful information.”
“And the reason Wick would ask the Chancellor to dance is…?”
Kleya answered her seriously, still in that flat Corellian accent. “I want to make it clear to the mark that I have access. I’d have briefed you in advance but the opportunity window just opened.”
“I had assumed we were being watched anyway; I do hope they can’t read lips?”
“It should only be stills or at most a grainy holo.”
“Good.” Mon thought for a moment. “And … ah … the reason you’d give me – and everyone else – would be?”
Kleya smiled at her in a way that Mon would have called “amused” before, but now looked entirely flirtatious in this context. “I’ve narrowed that down to three possibilities. You weren’t dancing at your own party, and I’m a well-brought-up young man with good manners. Or maybe I’m the flirtatious sort of favor-seeker. But as you and I are speaking so intimately, it may be more likely that I was instantly besotted with you. What better excuse?”
“I think your first two ideas might be easier to believe,” Mon replied, with a self-deprecating chuckle.
Kleya looked at her oddly. “Don’t be absurd, Mon. You’re a very attractive woman. I’ve always thought so.”
Mon was momentarily dumbstruck, then intrigued by this revelation, delivered as if a mere matter-of-fact correction. She felt her lips part for a moment. Then practicality reasserted itself. “And at the moment you look like you’re half my age!” The last part was nearly a hiss.
“Let small minds worry about such things,” Kleya-as-Wick said jovially. “I’ll think it over while we dance,” and Mon smiled to hear Luthen’s cadences once more.
“Now tell me, why are you going undercover as a man? And why would you look so young anyway?” Mon inquired.
“The original Wick Antares is a distant cousin of the syndicate’s leader – they haven’t seen each other since Wick was a small child – and he turned himself in before his induction. One of my enforcement contacts noticed a resemblance, so I’m … helping out, and I look his age.” Kleya grimaced slightly. “Or close enough to it, at any rate. How am I doing, by the way? I haven’t led a dance since I learned. When I was 12.”
“You’re doing splendidly. Your hand should be firmer on my waist, you can use more of your forearm to add weight. And your lead should be stronger on the turns and promenades, but that’s actually more about your torso than your arms.”
Kleya made the adjustments as Mon had instructed.
“Thank you. You’re a good dancer, Mon.”
Mon smiled genuinely at this. “Thank you. I’ve always enjoyed dancing, and it seems I rarely have the opportunity now.” Stars, she was actually flirting, now. Well, why not? It wasn’t actually scandalous. The divorce had gone through, after all.
Between turns and twirls, Kleya briefed her quietly and efficiently on the upcoming sting. Mon was surprised by how much she was enjoying herself. And, if it was not entirely an act, it seemed Kleya was as well. And there was something else, beyond mere enjoyment.
“Kleya, er, Wick, you look…” she trailed off, not sure if the remark would be too personal, though surely, as they had been acquainted for near on a decade now, she might have license to comment.
“Like a boy?” Kleya’s lips quirked.
“Well, a very handsome man, certainly. But I was going to say, more at ease than I’ve ever known you. It makes me happy to see.”
Kleya blinked. “Oh. Thank you, Mon.” She was quiet for a moment. “Maybe I’ve missed doing my own undercover work.”
“Wick” took a deep breath and changed the topic. “Any other advice? Every bit of verisimilitude helps.”
Mon raised an eyebrow. “For starters, are you certain Mr. Antares would use the word ‘verisimilitude’?” Kleya dipped her chin to acknowledge the point. Mon thought it over some more. “Depending on the circumstances, you might take more space with your elbows. And, if you’re seated, with your knees. Men are often less careful in that way.”
The song drew toward its conclusion.
“Well, have you decided why you asked me to dance?”
“Yes, I’ll combine them. I offered initially out of good manners, but became smitten with you.” She raised Mon’s hand to her lips, and added flirtatiously, “Can we be seen somewhere in a not-quite-compromising position sometime? Perhaps another dance after the mission?” Her eyes were twinkling. Mon would suspect it was part of the act... but Kleya hadn’t let go of her hand.
Mon tilted her head in consideration. She was far more aware of that kiss – show though it had undoubtedly been – than she would have imagined. And there was a strange sense of satisfaction in holding Kleya’s hand like this. Mon was far too controlled to blush at a public event, but she allowed herself to smile fondly. She took a full, controlled breath before she replied, “Good luck on your venture. I’d be happy to dance with you again afterwards, in either appearance. But,” and here she let her gaze grow intent, “I would rather it be away from prying eyes.”
Kleya’s eyes sparked and her lips quirked minutely in appreciation. She finally released Mon’s hand and bowed once more, murmuring “Chancellor.” Then she spun around and walked away, unhurriedly but with a spring in her step. Mon watched her go, rather enjoying the sight.
Feeling a little emotionally unsettled, Mon pulled herself back together. There was work yet to be done tonight: the work of the New Republic, for which so many had sacrificed so much. The new tariff bill loomed, and many Senate delegations remained uncommitted. They might respond well to a personal conversation. She caught the eye of an aide, and got back to it.