by James Luceno
The questions he couldn't answer for reasons that had nothing to do with the coma were where the treasure was hidden and precisely what part the Envoy would play in finding it. In the years he had flown for the Republic Group, Jadak had insisted on never being given the details of his missions. The less he knew, the less he could reveal if exposed as a spy and captured. But in the Senate Annex on that fateful day, the Senators had provided more than the usual information, and the phrase restore Republic honor to the galaxy was somehow a thread to unraveling their revelations.
Arrived at the visitor registration station, Jadak submitted their request.
“Rej Taunt,” the Falleen guard said. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Just visiting.”
“You're visitors.”
Jadak swapped looks with Poste. “What, as opposed to guests?”
The Falleen regarded them for a moment, then pointed to a bench and said: “Take a seat and I'll let you know.”
“Maybe they're holding him in solitary,” Poste ventured.
Jadak shook his head. “Not by the sound of it.”
For more than a standard hour they watched a HoloNet screen and sipped at sweet drinks purchased from a machine. Finally, the guard summoned them to the station.
“Taunt will see you now.” He slid two electronic passes forward. “Hook these to your belts. Follow the floor routing lines to the west building, then follow the red line to its end. Someone there will tell you what to do next.”
“Taunt will see us now?” Poste said as they set out.
Jadak shrugged. “Maybe he was busy knocking out illuminator covers.”
The walk took a solid quarter hour. The doors they passed through slid every which way—up, down, and to both sides. Some were barred and some were a meter thick. The guards and few prisoners moving through the sterile corridors looked as miserable as Carcel itself. Even the droids looked unhappy.
Ultimately a human guard led them to Taunt's cell, which, oddly, was sealed by a greel wood door that had to be two hundred years old. The door concealed a palatial suite of rooms covered with fine carpets and filled with furniture and antiques dating back to the late Old Republic era. An assortment of beings was busy at tasks while several human and humanoid females lounged languidly on divans and sofas. Well over a century old, Taunt was sitting like a Hutt on a huge pillow in the center of the least occupied room.
“I'm Sorrel, and this is Mag Frant,” Jadak said, using their new identities.
The Askajian gave them the once-over. “Do I know you gentlemen from somewhere?”
“We've come from Nar Shaddaa.”
Taunt glanced at Poste. “You're from Nar Shaddaa.” His gaze flicked to Jadak. “You … you're from …”
“All over.”
“That would have been my first guess.” Taunt's tone remained conversational. “So what brings you here all the way from Nar Shaddaa? Business?”
“Information,” Jadak said.
Taunt smiled faintly. “That's business, isn't it?”
“This is old business. It concerns a YT-Thirteen-hundred freighter called the Stellar Envoy.”
Taunt's expression changed, and he took a long moment to reply. “The Second Chance” he amended.
“That's what I meant.”
Taunt studied Jadak. “Who did you say sent you?”
“No one sent us. But it was Bammy Decree who told us where to find you.”
“The mechanic. How is he?”
“Still hobbling around.”
“He was a young man when I first met him.”
“He told us he rebuilt the Envoy for you.”
“That he did.” Taunt smiled with his eyes. “Did he tell you what happened?”
“Some of it.”
Taunt motioned for them to grab pillows and make themselves comfortable.
“At first, the Imperials wanted to execute me for the deaths of the cruiser's crew members and clones. Instead a military court sentenced me to life. For the next couple of years, I was transferred from one penitentiary to the next—Agon Nine, Fodurant, Delrian, I saw the inside of all of them. Meanwhile, Bammy Decree learned that I'd taken a contract out on him and fled Nar Shaddaa for the stars. A bounty hunter found him hiding in Nomad City at Nkllon, and I had him turned over to the Black Sun Vigo who had paid for the cargo of buzz droids I jettisoned. Long story short, the Vigo was so impressed by my honoring the debt, he suggested a business partnership whereby he would furnish me with information I could feed to prison authorities in exchange for my being allowed to conduct illegal business while incarcerated—and in surroundings suited to my tastes. A kind of Black Sun franchise, you might say. All through the Imperial years, the New Republic years, and through all the wars since, I've been sitting pretty while the rest of the galaxy has gone to rot. But in all that time, I've never forgotten that first run I made, jinxed as it was. I had high hopes for that ship.”
“Maybe you should have named her High Hopes instead of Second Chance,” Jadak said.
Taunt gazed at him. “Have we met before? Because you seem familiar. Ever been in lockup?”
Jadak shook his head. “I would remember.”
“What's your interest in the Second Chance? You don't look like the historian type.”
“My uncle was one of the pilots who died in the collision at Nar Shaddaa. His name was Reeze Duurmun.”
Taunt flicked his big head in a nod of recognition. “You get to be my age, you forget faces. But I never forget a name. I knew Reeze when he was flying contraband for the Ilk family. He and I ran into some problems on Nar Shaddaa, but we managed to work them out.” He paused briefly. “Fancy that, Reeze dying in the ship I wound up with. I never knew … but Reeze being your uncle still doesn't explain why you'd come all the way to Carcel looking for the freighter.”
“If she still exists, I want to own her.”
“That's an if of major magnitude considering how much time has passed.”
“We know that.”
Taunt appraised them. “Kind of a fling, is that it, your looking for the ship? You don't have jobs? You're independently wealthy?”
“I lost my legs in an industrial accident. I'm blowing the insurance settlement pursuing a lifelong dream.”
“And I'm supposed to help you make your dream come true?”
“We just want to know what became of the freighter after your arrest.”
Taunt considered it. “I could tell you straight-out, I suppose. But I have to ask what you're bringing to the table.”
“I won't insult you by saying credits, since it doesn't look like you lack for anything.”
“Nice of you to notice.”
“How about we reframe the question by asking if there's something we can do for you in exchange for the information we're after.”
Taunt rubbed his chins. “I do have something in the works. My employees are already on it, but they could use a couple of human hands. You'd have to be willing to jump your way to Holess. Are you flush enough to do that?”
“Providing you don't mind us taking the local.”
“Even the local will get you there in time for the job.”
“What's involved?” Jadak asked cautiously.
“Revenge.”
“We're not muscle.”
“Clearly. But this job isn't revenge of that sort.”
“Who's the target?” Poste asked.
“The Colicoids.”
Jadak was caught by surprise. “I didn't know they were still around.”
Taunt sneered. “Like any pest, they're hard to eradicate.”
“Revenge on an individual Colicoid or the entire species?”
“I don't overreach,” Taunt said. “Here's the way it lays out. Though things turned out well enough for me, I've never forgiven them for what they did to some of the members of my crew, and for what those karking buzz droids did to my future. I've waited a long time to even the score, and the chance is finally at hand.”
“What part do we play in this?” Jadak said.
Taunt leaned forward on the pillow. “Ever hear of a creature called a hueche?”
“An extraordinary creature,” Vistal Purn was telling Han, Leia, Allana, and C-3PO in his office on the upper tier of the arena. “Certainly the finest example of a marsupial ever entered into competition. His name is Tamac's Zantay Aura. The radiance of the orange stripes is what won him the prize. And so well behaved. You know, the female produces a salubrious milk called kista.”
“I didn't know,” Leia said politely.
After the previous day's events it was difficult to care much about the pet who had won most placid in show, and she and Han might have postponed the meeting with Vistal Purn had Allana not insisted on honoring the appointment they had made. She gave all appearances of having put the brief abduction behind her, but Leia knew that wasn't the case. She had the ability to compartmentalize experiences and lock the painful ones away, a knack she had inherited from Tenel Ka rather than Jacen.
“What will happen to Tamac's Zantay Aura?” Allana asked.
Purn was only too happy to answer it. Ten years or so younger than Han, he was tall and elegantly dressed and charming in a way Leia guessed would be required to deal with the sort of beings who entered pets into competition.
“He will father many chitliks that will be sold for obscene amounts of credits. Also, chitliks will become the must-have pets until some other species wins next year's competition. There's always a bit of politics involved,” Purn added, almost as an aside to Han and Leia. “An adviser to Chief of State Daala is said to have a pair of chitliks. Still, the shows can be fun. I'm so sorry that your introduction to them had to be spoiled …”
“Sorry about the pets that got flattened,” Han said.
“No need to apologize,” Purn said. “From what I understand, the group that attempted to force your hand was smuggling weapons onto Taris inside false-bottomed cages. Galactic Alliance agents discovered a recent shipment of arms cached in the arena's sub-basement. Between us, I think this conspiracy may go all the way to the top. My hope is that it doesn't completely tarnish the reputation of the show. Next year is shaping up to be an extraordinary year for insectoids and avians. If you have time I can show you some of the holoimages we've received.” Purn fell silent for a moment, then said to Leia: “Captain Solo's eyes look as if they're glazing over.”
“They have closed completely on three occasions in the past four cycles,” C-3PO said.
Playfully, Leia patted Han on the hand. “He missed his afternoon nap. He might wake up if you'd tell us about the years you flew the Millennium Falcon. We know you sold it to Cix Trouvee, but Cix's children weren't able to shed any light on where you acquired the ship, or what it was being used for.”
Purn sat back in his chair and grinned. “The Falcon. Just thinking about it brings me back …” He sat forward. “You see, I was young and in love …”
I WAS YOUNG AND IN LOVE AND THE MANAGER OF MOLPOL'S TRAVELING Circus.
But perhaps I should start at the beginning.
I grew up on Generis, where my parents owned and operated a wilderness ranch on a white-water stretch of the Atrivis River. The ranch was a four-day walk from the closest population center, but most guests opted to pay extra to be delivered by airspeeder, which could make the trip in a little under a standard hour. My parents eventually purchased an airspeeder of their own and taught me to pilot it. By the time I was twelve, it was my job to ferry guests in and out of the ranch and to oversee all routine maintenance and upkeep of the speeder. When I wasn't flying I did whatever needed doing at the ranch, where life was pleasant if somewhat boring for a young man who had his sights set on seeing the stars.
The place attracted wealthy travelers who wanted to experience the wilderness in comfort. For my siblings and me, that meant catering to their needs all hours of the day and night. As more and more guests began to arrive with their children in tow, it became my responsibility to entertain them while their parents were out fishing, hunting, hiking, or running the rapids. This might sound like the worst of all possible tasks, but in fact I love to laugh, and I was born with a gift for making others laugh—frequently at my own expense. I never minded playing the fool, and my popularity with the kids brought me to the attention of the adults, who rarely said good-bye without inviting me to visit them on their homeworlds, which were like imaginary places for me. From them I heard wonderful stories about Mid and Outer Rim worlds, which only reinforced my desire to escape Generis as soon as I could.
Generis was far removed from the effects of Imperial rule, but guests at the ranch kept my family well informed of galactic developments. I knew that the quickest route to earning a starship pilot's license was through one of the Imperial Academies, but I didn't want to spend years of compulsory service in the navy and had no interest in learning to fly TIE fighters. So I took a civilian approach, apprenticing with several shipping companies and commercial enterprises before striking out on my own as a freelance pilot. Ultimately I was hired by the Molpol Circus to pilot one of their light freighters.
By then Molpol had been in existence for about one hundred standard years. It wasn't a big operation, but it was a profitable and popular one, especially on the remote worlds on which the arrival of the circus became an annual reason for celebration. On civilized worlds, we would lampoon everyone. HoloNet celebrities, sports figures, politicians—even Palpatine, until we received a warning from the Imperial Palace to remove him from our repertoire or face the consequences. On remote worlds, we would research local myths and legends beforehand and tailor our acts accordingly. And by remote I mean planets where the indigenes were still burning fossil fuels for energy, suffering through spells of unpredictable weather, and dying of diseases that had been eradicated on the Core Worlds millennia earlier. Planets on which the mere act of defying gravity was still thought of as magical. To most of the populations, the fact that we had arrived from the far side of the galaxy meant next to nothing; we could just as easily have arrived from the far side of their own planet. The important thing was that we brought with us everything one could wish for in a circus: exotic animals, live music, and a host of skilled performers, from sideshow oddities to Ryn acrobats to master illusionists on the order of the Great Xaverri.
Molpol liked to think of itself as the antithesis of Circus Horrificus, with its ferocious arqets, akk dogs, and gladiatorial contests. As an alternative to inciting the kind of chaos Horrificus once did on Nar Shaddaa, Molpol delivered wonder and pure entertainment. Although, like Horrificus, we had a rancor—an albino mutant named Snowmass—and the usual assortment of carnivorous felines, herd animals, cameloids, and simians. Our beastmasters and handlers had scoured the galaxy to find the most interesting creatures—dianoga, nexu, mynock, and lava flea—but for the younglings in the audience we also had taurill, hawk-bats, energy spiders, and kyntix. Molpol's owner at the time, an Ortolan named Dax Doogun, dreamed of adding a sarlacc to the menagerie, but could never come up with an efficient way to transport it.
To move the animals we relied on an old Haor Chall C-9979 landing ship, reconfigured to be piloted by a flesh-and-blood crew—since Molpol owned few droids—and retrofitted with a bulky, Class Six hyperdrive. The cargo areas, racks, and massive turntables the Neimoidians had created to deploy their tanks and battle droid transports were redesigned to carry and reposition our banthas, acklays, and gun-darks—and, of course, Snowmass.
The Millennium Falcon was already a part of Molpol's fleet when I joined. It struck me as odd that such a powerful ship should be the property of a circus. Earlier owners had equipped the freighter with a military-grade hyperdrive and a dorsal turbolaser turret. But the more time I spent at the controls of the Falcon, the more I came to appreciate what a perfect fit she was for Molpol, being as agile as our acrobats and as motley as our sideshow performers. She was also long past her glory days as a ship of any sort—battle-scarred, held together with
spit and wire, in sore need of body work, and about as capricious a vessel as I'd ever piloted.
In time I grew very fond of the Falcon, but for me Molpol's chief attraction was a young aerialist who was known by the stage name Sari Danzer. She was beautiful and graceful, and she could perform repulsorlift stunts that would amaze and astound even the most jaded members of the audience. Unlike me, the circus was in her blood, and the performances she gave had been honed over several generations by family members who guarded their secrets as closely as the Jedi once guarded theirs. Through the clever use of lasers and other aids, Sari could make herself appear to vanish, shrink, grow larger than a bantha, or streak through the sky like a meteor. Even when she wasn't performing, she moved in a way that seemed almost weightless.
She was Molpol's star, and unfortunately she knew that.
Her demands knew no bounds, and she insisted on bringing meticulous attention to everything she did. Never an eyelash out of place; never a piece of clothing that didn't fit perfectly; never a misstep. If she executed one of her routines less than perfectly, she would be angry for days. And if you were a member of the crew, you definitely didn't want to be the one responsible for spoiling the lighting or the music. Sari wouldn't scream at you, but her cold silence could be deafening.
None of that, however, stopped me from falling in love with her.
I was a mere pilot and she had little time for me, but I managed to bridge that gap. Since everyone involved with Molpol did double duty of some sort, I decided to join the clown squad—if for no other reason than to be able to exchange a few words with Sari between acts. Fifteen other clowns and I would have just emerged from a land-speeder meant for four, or I would have just worn myself out doing pratfalls, and there she'd be, waiting in the wings to go on, and I'd wish her luck or compliment her on her choice of costume. I don't think she was physically attracted to me in the slightest, but she loved that I could make the audience laugh and leave everyone in the best possible mood to appreciate her performance.
