Star Wars: Dark Nest II: The Unseen Queen

by Troy Denning

  Han shook his head. “No way. I deal directly with the furbags on this.”

  “Ooomoor.”

  The bug spread its four arms and began to back away from the wall.

  “Okay, okay,” Han said. “But if you steal the credit—”

  “Han, will you just tell it?” There was a glint in Luke’s eye that suggested he finally realized Han was up to something more useful than having R2-D2 scratch X’s in the spinglass. “You’re getting on my nerves.”

  Saras returned to the wall.

  “All right—you’re going to love this.” Han held the model of the Falcon up close to the wall. “You’re going to produce a billion of these, right?”

  Saras nodded.

  “What if I signed some of them?” Han asked. “They’d be worth five times as much, and the publicity would help launch the entire line.”

  The bug was silent for a moment, then it clacked its mandibles and pointed at Luke. “Moomor?”

  “She’s inquiring whether Master Skywalker would also sign his models,” C-3PO informed them.

  “When Sarlaccs fly!” Luke said. “I’m a Jedi Master, not some cheap HoloNet personality.”

  “Sure, he’ll sign,” Han said. “If the price is right.”

  The bug thrummed something else.

  “Oh, dear,” C-3PO said. “This may be a deal killer.”

  “Let me decide that,” Han said. “What is it?”

  “Saras says you’d have to sign one percent of the production run,” C-3PO said.

  “No problem,” Han replied.

  “Ten million units, Han?” Luke asked. “That would take you the rest of your life.”

  “I said it’s no problem,” Han answered. Even if he were serious about the deal, he knew the Squibs were never going to sell ten million units. “Once we become Saras Joiners, anybody in the nest will be able to sign.”

  “Joiners?” Luke cried. “Han, that’s not going—”

  “Look, I’m as disgusted by the thought as you are,” Han said. “But it’s going to happen. We might as well take advantage of the situation.”

  “Moom!” the bug boomed.

  It clacked its mandibles and began to back away from the wall, but Han shook his head and motioned it to the wall again.

  “Not so fast, fella,” he said. “I don’t come cheap, you know.”

  “Could have fooled me,” Luke muttered.

  Saras stopped in the middle of the corridor that ran past their quarters. “Oom morr?”

  Han shook his head. “That, I talk about with the Squibs.” He backed away from the wall. “If they’re interested, tell them to come see me.”

  The bug gave a noncommittal throb and retreated to the other side of the corridor.

  Han returned to his stool, and Luke came and sat on the bunk next to him.

  “You really think your autograph is worth that much?” Luke asked.

  He held Han’s eye a little longer than was necessary, and Han thought he could sense something more in the question.

  “A million credits, at least,” Han said. He passed the Falcon model to Luke, casually flipping it belly-up as he did so. “And your signature would go double that. Maybe triple.”

  “Triple?” Luke looked genuinely flattered. “Really?”

  “At least,” Han said. He had always been a little too repulsed to ask Jaina and Zekk much about how things had progressed when they started to become Joiners, but just in case Saras was starting to share his mind, too, he tried to keep his thoughts away from what he really intended to ask of the Squibs. “With all the ’Net the Jedi are getting regarding the Reconstruction, you’re going to be as hot as a blue star right now.”

  “In that case, maybe I should consider it,” Luke said. He casually flipped the model back over, and Han thought he felt a little jolt of surprise in the back of his mind—or maybe that was just wishful thinking. “But first, I think I’ll take your other advice.”

  Han frowned. “My other advice?”

  “About the code sequence Alema gave me,” Luke said. “I think it’s time I had a look.”

  Now Han knew Luke understood.

  “You sure?” Han asked. He was fairly sure that Luke had not used the code sequence because he was afraid of what it might reveal about Mara—it might bolster Alema’s suggestion that Mara was hiding something terrible from him. “I thought you didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.”

  “I don’t,” Luke said. “That’s why I have to do it now—before we become Joiners.”

  Han nodded. He knew what Luke was thinking because he was thinking it, too. It was almost a given that Gorog had spies watching them, and the last thing they wanted was for the Dark Nest to start thinking about what Han really wanted from the Squibs. So Luke was going to keep Gorog occupied by giving it something to gloat over.

  Luke passed the model back to Han, then turned to R2-D2. “Artoo, come here.”

  R2-D2 gave a sad whistle and started for Luke’s quarters.

  “No, Artoo,” Luke said. “Come over here.”

  R2-D2 disappeared through the door, quietly tweeting and beeping to himself.

  “Artoo!” C-3PO called. “Are you ignoring Master Skywalker?”

  R2-D2 gave a one-beep reply.

  C-3PO recoiled as though he had been struck, then turned to Luke. “It appears that his compliance routines have failed completely. I’ll go see if I can reset them.”

  “That’s okay,” Luke said. “I’ll handle this myself.”

  He extended a hand toward his quarters, and an electronic squeal sounded from inside. A moment later, R2-D2 floated back into Han’s quarters, his treads whirring and his utility arm scratching along the wall.

  “Artoo-Detoo!” C-3PO said. “This is Master Skywalker’s last request before he becomes a Joiner. The least you can do is honor it.”

  R2-D2 shot back a string of whistles and trills.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” C-3PO said. “Of course I’ll recite the override sequence that Jedi Rar provided, if Master Skywalker asks me to. That’s what a protocol droid does. He facilitates.”

  R2-D2 let out a long bleat as Luke lowered him the floor between the bunk and Han’s stool.

  “Well, you’re certainly not doing him any favors by behaving this way,” C-3PO replied. “And don’t talk to me like that. I’ll trip your primary circuit breaker myself.”

  “That’s enough, Threepio,” Luke said. “Just give him the sequence.”

  R2-D2 screeched in protest and swung his holoprojector away from Luke, and it seemed to Han that he felt the Falcon replica give a faint shudder of anticipation, so soft and brief that it could have been a flutter in his own pulse. He pretended not to notice and put the model aside, turning the cockpit so that it was only partially facing Luke, and C-3PO dutifully recited the code sequence.

  R2-D2 emitted a long, descending whistle, and the hologram of a large, fountain-filled chamber appeared on the floor in front of Han. The viewing angle was from high in one corner, where a security cam might be mounted, and the only movement in the room was the water falling from the fountains.

  “What nonsense is this, Artoo?” C-3PO demanded. “You didn’t record this. You’re not that tall.”

  R2-D2 tweedled a reply.

  “A stolen file?” C-3PO cried. “Stolen on whose authority?”

  R2-D2 answered with a short whistle.

  “I don’t believe you,” C-3PO said. “Even Artoo units have restraints against that sort of thing.”

  “What sort of thing?” Luke asked.

  “Artoo claims he downloaded this file on his own initiative,” C-3PO said. “But now I know he’s running us a corrupted feed. He claims this is from the internal security computer at the Jedi Temple, and we all know there is no room like this at the Jedi Temple.”

  R2-D2 whistled a correction.

  “Oh,” C-3PO said. “Now he claims it’s from the old Jedi Temple.”

  “The Room of a Thousand Fountains,�
�� Luke said. “I’ve seen it mentioned in some of those records we recovered from the Chu’unthor.”

  R2-D2 began to trill a long, additional explanation.

  “He adds that he had no choice,” C-3PO translated. “It was during the Jedi Revolt, and his owner had stopped talking to him. They were about to leave on a mission to Mustafar, and he needed to update his friend-or-foe data.”

  The hologram continued to show the empty room, and Han began to think that the little droid had found one more clever way to keep his secret. Given the effect that secret was likely to have on Luke, Han almost hoped the droid had.

  But R2-D2’s acoustic signaler began to emit the tinny pew-pew of recorded blasterfire. Stray dashes of blue began to streak through the hologram, blowing fountains apart, burning holes in the walls, vanishing into the heights of the vaulted ceiling.

  Dozens of children, dressed in simple Jedi robes and wearing a single braid on the sides of their heads, began to retreat into the room. The youngest, those under six or seven, simply tried to run or find a place to hide. The older ones were attempting to fight, using the Force to hurl benches and pieces of broken fountain at their attackers. Some were firing captured blaster rifles, while a few were trying to use their newly constructed lightsabers to ricochet bolts at the unseen enemy. For the most part, they failed miserably but bravely, deflecting half a dozen or a dozen attacks before one sneaked through and knocked them off their feet.

  The teenagers came next, backing into the room with their lightsabers whirling, weaving a wall of flashing energy before a column of advancing infantry. Dressed in what appeared to be early stormtrooper armor, the soldiers assaulted ruthlessly, cutting down fleeing four-year-olds with the same brutal efficiency with which they slaughtered the Padawans.

  Han had been just a boy in Garris Shrike’s band of vagabonds when the Separatists tried to break away from the Old Republic, but he had seen enough of the war to recognize the finned helmets and independent joint covers on the white armor the soldiers wore.

  “Clone troopers!”

  R2-D2 gave a confirming tweet.

  A huge Jedi with stooped shoulders and a gnarled face backed into view, anchoring the line of teenage defenders, his lightsaber sending bolt after bolt back at the attackers, lashing out to cut down one trooper after another. A pair of Padawans stepped in to support his flanks, and the entire line stopped falling back, the lightsabers of the young Jedi weaving an impenetrable wall of energy that—for a few short moments—allowed nothing past, not a blaster bolt, nor a clone trooper, nor even, it seemed to Han, a stray glance.

  A blue lightsaber appeared at the edge of the holo, beating down the defense of the first Padawan and slashing through his torso, then slipping past the guard of the other one and cutting him down as well. The back of a blond head and a pair of caped shoulders appeared behind the blue blade and began to carry the attack to the stoop-shouldered Jedi.

  The two stood battling toe-to-toe for only an instant before the caped figure slipped a strike and brought his own blade down on the defender’s stooped shoulder, cleaving him deep into the torso. The Jedi’s gnarled face paled with shock, and he collapsed in too much pain to scream.

  The Padawans continued to battle on valiantly, but without the burly Jedi to anchor their line, they were no match for the sheer numbers assaulting them. Their defense collapsed, and the caped figure stepped aside, standing in seeming indifference as the clone troopers poured past to continue the slaughter of the children.

  Han felt sickened and angered by what he was watching, but he also felt a little bit relieved. Mara would have been only a baby—and perhaps not even that—when the Jedi were slaughtered. Whatever Alema hoped to reveal with the code sequence, the scene they were watching could have nothing to do with Mara.

  Finally, the last of the children had fallen, and the clones stopped firing. The caped figure studied the room for a moment, then gave a barely perceptible nod and turned back toward the entrance. The face that stared into the cam was clouded with anger, the eyes sunken and dark, the mouth set in a grim slash, but there was no mistaking who it belonged to.

  Anakin Skywalker.

  “That’s enough, Artoo,” Luke said. His face remained a mask of composure, but he rose and turned toward his own quarters. “Thank you.”

  R2-D2 deactivated his holoprojector, then emitted a long descending whistle and started to follow Luke through the door.

  Han quickly rose and blocked the little droid’s path. “Better stay put for a while,” he said. “I’ll handle this.”

  R2-D2 spun his photoreceptor toward C-3PO and trilled a long string of notes.

  “I don’t know why you’re blaming me,” C-3PO said. “I was only following instructions.”

  Han went to the doorway connecting his quarters to Luke’s and found Luke floating cross-legged in the air, the backs of his wrists resting on his knees.

  Without opening his eyes, Luke said, “I just need to center myself, Han.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I figured.” As Han spoke, he saw that Luke wasn’t the only thing floating in the room. So were the stool, the bunk, and the X-wing replica Raynar had presented to him. The replica seemed to be trembling with excitement. “That was kind of rough in there, even on me.”

  “I’ll be okay, Han,” Luke said. “I just need to center myself.”

  “I’ll bet,” Han said. “What I don’t get is how Alema knew what that code sequence was going to access. Even if she’s telling the truth about that Daxar Ies character, she didn’t say anything about him working on Artoo. There’s no way he should have known what’s in that memory sector Artoo’s hiding.”

  “Oh, I’m quite certain he didn’t,” C-3PO said from behind Han. “The code Alema gave me was undoubtedly a universal key. Most droid-brain designers bury them in the circuitry architecture, as a safeguard against data lockouts and irreversible shutdowns. They simply force a unit to convert its most secure file to an open access file. In Artoo’s case, that file was one incriminating him in the worst sort of data theft. No wonder he didn’t want to reveal it!”

  “That’s great.” Luke’s eyes were still closed, but he was sitting on the floor now—as were the bunk, the stool, and the replica. “But I really need—”

  “You said the code was a universal key?” Han said, turning around to face C-3PO. “You mean it could unlock all of Artoo’s files?”

  Artoo issued a sharp tweet, but C-3PO ignored him. “If we knew the basis for the code progression, of course. But not even Artoo knows that. It has self-changing variables, so unless we know the original algorithm and variables—”

  “Okay, I get it.” Han glanced back into the room, where Luke had given up trying to meditate and was simply sitting on the floor looking up at the doorway. “It’s probably just as well.”

  A furrow came to Luke’s brow. “Han—”

  “All right, already.” Han turned and shooed C-3PO away from the door. “Will you give the man some room? He needs to center himself.”

  “Han—”

  “I’m going already.”

  “Han, that’s not it.” Luke closed his eyes. “I think it’s time to close your deal.”

  “Already?” Han turned toward the door membrane. “I thought the Squibs would play it a little cooler than that.”

  Luke frowned. “I don’t think it’s the Squibs . . . You go on.” He glanced down at the replica of his X-wing, then motioned Han out his door. “I need a minute to finish my meditations, but I’ll be there when you need me.”

  Han turned toward the interior wall of his quarters, where a group of silhouettes was just growing visible through the translucent spinglass. Most of the figures were obviously Killiks, with shadows in their hands that suggested electrobolt assault rifles and Verpine shatter guns. But the two silhouettes in the center had only two arms each and carried no visible weapons. They were about Squib height, but a little too stocky and flat-faced.

  A Saras guard pressed its tho
rax to the wall and boomed an order.

  “She’s ordering us to step away from the door,” C-3PO said.

  Han looked around and held his arms out to his side. “Where do you expect us to go? We’re already in the back of the room.”

  The guard drummed an acknowledgment, then it and several other bugs used their mandibles to snip and rip the outer seal away from the doorway. A moment later, the two silhouettes they were escorting pushed through the membrane into Han’s quarters, bringing with them a sweet-smelling cloud of the bond-inducing pheromones that pervaded the jail.

  The first figure was a jug-eared Sullustan in a tidy white flight suit resembling that worn by the captains of commercial starliners. The second was a furry little Ewok with a white stripe running diagonally across a body that was otherwise as black as carbon.

  “Tarfang?” Han gasped. He shifted his glance back to the Sullustan. “Juun?”

  The Ewok chuttered something sharp at Han, while the Sullustan merely braced his hands on his hips and looked around the cell shaking his head.

  “Tarfang suggests that since you’re an inmate and Captain Juun is the owner of a fine Damorian Ronto-class transport, you should address him as Captain Juun,” C-3PO reported.

  “A Ronto?” Han did not bother to hide the disdain in his voice. Rontos were among the slowest, ugliest, and least efficient of the light transports crisscrossing the galaxy. He frowned at Captain Juun. “What happened to that Mon Cal Sailfish I set you up with?”

  “She was too expensive,” Juun explained. “My weekly payments were customarily running a week and a half late.”

  Han frowned. “But you were making them, right?”

  “Yes,” Juun said. “With the appropriate interest, of course.”

  “And Lando took her back for that?”

  Tarfang jabbered an explanation.

  “Captain Juun was too clever to give him the chance,” C-3PO translated. “He traded his equity for DR-Nine-one-nine-a—free and clear.”

  “Someone got a real bargain.” Han did not bother to ask what the pair were doing on Woteba; Ronto-class transports were just too slow for the inventory-running contract he had talked Lando into giving Juun. “I don’t suppose the Second Mistake Squibs are the ones who gave you this steal?”