by James Luceno
Shortly, Roa and Fasgo joined him on the floor, as had become their habit. Both of them, along with almost everyone else in the hold, looked bedraggled and waterlogged from having had to endure long sessions in the tank with the yammosk. Four captives had died as a consequence of the creature’s attempts at mind probing, and more than twice that number had been rendered catatonic. Skidder had survived only by drawing gently on the Force, just deeply enough to maintain sanity without revealing his Jedihood.
He was down to his last spoonful of nutrient when Roa said, “Well, look who’s returned.”
Following Roa’s delighted gaze, Skidder turned and saw Sapha and her five fellow Ryn entering the hold. Instantly he got to his feet and waved them over, appraising them as they approached. None of the six had been seen since Commander Chine-kal had ordered them away—what must have been standard days earlier. Everyone had wondered about their mysterious disappearance, and Skidder was eager to learn where they had been taken.
“To the Hutt,” Sapha said in reply to his question as she lowered herself to the floor.
Roa’s mouth fell open. “A Hutt? On board this ship?”
Sapha nodded. “Randa Besadii Diori. The son of a Hutt named Borga.”
Skidder waited to speak until three of Sapha’s companions had moved off to join the food line. “Why is Randa here?” he asked quietly but forcefully.
Sapha regarded him for a moment. “It seemed to us that the Yuuzhan Vong are grooming him to take charge of transporting prisoners of war. For sacrifices, perhaps, or some other purposes.”
“So that’s the deal they cut for themselves,” Skidder said through locked teeth. “But why were you brought to Randa?”
She laughed without mirth. “To tell his fortune. Using Ryn as diviners was once a pastime of the Hutts—amusing to them, frequently fatal to us. When forecasts failed to come true, the diviners were killed in various but always gruesome ways. I grew up hearing tales of such things.”
Skidder considered it. “So Randa asked you to predict his future,” he said at last. “What did you tell him?”
Sapha shrugged. “Innocuous things, open to interpretation.”
“For instance?” Roa asked.
“The near future will be a sometimes puzzling mix of pleasures and challenges. He has much on his mind as a result of monumental events that have recently come to pass. The future hinges on his ability to think clearly and see all sides …”
Fasgo laughed with his mouth full. “I’ve been told the same things by you people.”
“And Randa accepted that?” Skidder said.
“He seemed to.” Sapha gestured broadly to the hold. “We’re here, and not to the best of my knowledge slated for imminent execution.”
Skidder’s eyes narrowed with intent. “Did he ask to see you again?”
Sapha nodded. “After his beauty sleep. Probably to evaluate our accuracy.”
“Was Chine-kal present?”
“The first time. The commander took some interest in our reading of Randa’s body markings and palm lines. On the second occasion, he grew bored. I doubt he’ll be there next time.”
“He’s just accommodating the Hutt,” Roa suggested. “I suspect that the Yuuzhan Vong consider themselves shapers of the future, not destined for one outcome or another.”
Skidder was deep in thought.
One of the Ryn returned with a bowl of nutrient for Sapha, but she pushed it away in disgust.
“The same stuff for every meal, for every species.”
Fasgo nodded. “One gruel fits all.” He eyed the untouched bowl Sapha had set aside. “You going to eat that?” he asked finally.
“Help yourself,” she told him.
He did, ravenously, only ceasing his spooning to remark, “You’ll learn to tolerate it. Besides, it’s the only way to keep up your strength.”
“Answer me this,” Sapha said. “The Yuuzhan Vong employ organic technology where we use machines, correct?”
“Thus far,” Roa said.
“Then they don’t use machines or droids to prepare this stuff.”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“And yet I haven’t seen any chefs, or any kitchen staff. So who prepares it?”
Fasgo stopped eating, his spoon in midair, to exchange glances with Roa. “Critters,” he said to Sapha. “Creatures.”
Sapha gazed at the thin gray gruel. “Creatures cook this?”
Again, Roa and Fasgo swapped glances. “In a manner of speaking,” Roa said delicately.
Sapha frowned. “In what manner of speaking?”
Fasgo set the bowl down. “Look, you don’t care for the stuff as is. Maybe you shouldn’t be wondering where it comes from or how it’s cooked.”
Sapha was about to ask regardless, but Skidder abruptly surfaced from his pensive trance.
“Randa has an entourage with him? Bodyguards?”
“Some Rodians, Aqualish, and Twi’leks,” Sapha said. “The usual mix.”
“How many bodyguards?”
Sapha looked to one of her clanmates, who said, “Ten.”
“Roughly the same number of guards in the yammosk tank hold,” Skidder muttered. He fell silent, then looked hard at Sapha and the other Ryn.
“Listen carefully: The next time you’re summoned, you’re going to tell Randa that he’s going to be betrayed. He’s been lured aboard only so that Commander Chine-kal can sacrifice him.” He cut his eyes to Sapha. “You understand?”
She and the other Ryn regarded one another in bafflement. “And when that doesn’t come to pass? You’ll have us all sucking vacuum.”
Skidder shook his head. “It will come to pass, because I’m going to plant an idea in the yammosk that Randa is going to betray Chine-kal, and that he only agreed to come aboard to free us. The yammosk is sure to alert Chine-kal, and Chine-kal might even want the yammosk to take a peek at what’s in the Hutt’s head.”
Sapha shook her head as if to clear it. “People have found unusual purposes for the Ryn, but this …”
Roa frowned at Skidder. “Look, Keyn, just because the creature has taken a liking to you, that doesn’t mean you can actually talk to it, much less plant an idea in its brain.”
Skidder sneered. “You’re wrong. I’ve already been conversing with it.”
Fasgo choked on his food and made a comical gesture to indicate madness. “Someone’s been in the tank too long,” he fairly hummed.
Roa continued to stare at Skidder. “You say you’ve been conversing with the yammosk?”
“By using the Force.”
Fasgo broke the protracted silence by saying, with patent disbelief, “The Force?”
“I’m a Jedi Knight,” Skidder announced, in a way that managed to combine modesty and pride. “My real name is Wurth Skidder.”
“Well, well,” Roa huffed, “that certainly answers a lot of my questions about you.”
“Then I was right,” Sapha said. “You deliberately allowed yourself to be captured.”
Skidder nodded. “At the time I didn’t know they had a war coordinator aboard this ship. But one thing is clear: they’re conveying it to a world they plan to invade and utilize as a forward base of operations. We need to learn that destination, and find some way to get the information to the Jedi or the New Republic military.”
Roa was the first to respond. “Let’s say you do manage to turn Chine-kal and the Hutt against one another. How’s that going to help you get what you want?”
Skidder was one step ahead of him. “Once I’ve gained the yammosk’s trust, it’s going to tell me where we’re headed.”
“Okay,” Roa said tentatively.
“I’ll make use of the yammosk to control the dovin basal that drives the ship.”
Roa and Sapha traded glances. “And then?” the old man asked.
Skidder fixed him with a look. “We mutiny.”
The Hutt consulate on Coruscant was chaotic. Servants and dozens of hired workers were busy emptying
the place of the vast amount of antiques, keepsakes, and collectibles Golga had amassed in his too-brief reign as consul general. Reclining on the couch that occupied the center of the courtyard chamber he had come to think of as home, he could only hope that the galaxy would return to normal in the near future, and that Borga the Almighty might deem him fit to continue serving as Nal Hutta’s envoy to the New Republic. Until such time, he would simply have to accept whatever posting Borga assigned him, though it chilled him even to imagine being sent to somewhere like Sriluur, Kessel, or—perish the thought—Tatooine.
“Careful with those hookahs!” he said to the three Gamorreans who were crating his waterpipes. “Some of those once belonged to Jabba himself!”
He lowered his stubby arms, cursing himself for not having had the good sense to order the Rodians on his staff to see to the hookahs. But they were in the sleep chamber packing away even more personal belongings, and everyone else was too occupied destroying documents, making round trips to the launch platform, or keeping the demonstrators from storming the consulate, as one group had attempted to do only the previous evening.
Turmoil had been the order of the day since the HoloNet had broken the story that Nal Hutta had made a separate peace with the Yuuzhan Vong, and that the Hutts were severing diplomatic relations with the New Republic. Had Borga notified Golga in advance, the consulate could have been quietly closed. Instead the penthouse of the Old Republic–style Valorum Tower had become a target for every Outer Rim refugee on Coruscant, and thus a precarious place to reside.
Servants, attachés, and staffers had decamped, including Golga’s chargé d’affaires. Suppliers had refused to deliver food and other needed supplies. Coruscant Energy had engineered power failures, and Coruscant Water had so reduced the flow that daily bathing in the penthouse’s converted fountain had become impossible. The number of bomb threats exceeded one hundred, though no devices had been discovered, and on the HoloNet rumors flew fast and furious, accusing the Hutts of everything from treason to sabotage, with many calling for the arrest of all Hutts, and some advocating a declaration of war.
Even now a mixed-species crowd was assembled on the observation balcony of the tower across the city canyon, chanting for retribution, throwing fists in the air, and appealing to the ceaseless flow of air traffic with huge and multicolored Hutt-condemning holoplacards. Early on, Golga had tolerated the strident gatherings, but he had since ordered the transparisteel windows curtained so he wouldn’t have to be greeted by the sight of demonstrators each time he entered the chamber.
Soon, in any case, the angry crowds would be nothing more than an unpleasant memory. He would be on his way to Nal Hutta, and to diplomatic duties elsewhere in the galaxy. Once more, worries of a posting on Tatooine assailed him, but they were interrupted by the arrival of his Twi’lek secretary.
“Highness, New Republic Senator Shesh requests audience.”
“Now?” Golga said incredulously. “Doesn’t Senator Shesh realize that I’m preparing to depart?”
“She does, Highness. But she asserts that it is vital that she speak with you beforehand. She asserts further that you will be passing up a unique opportunity should you elect not to grant her audience.”
“A unique opportunity, indeed. Is this Senator Viqi Shesh of Kuat?”
“Yes, Highness.”
Golga grimaced in derision. “A member of the Advisory Council and the Security and Intelligence Council. Shall I tell you beforehand about this unique opportunity? She is going to ask me to serve as an agent for New Republic Intelligence. She will promise generous compensation for my keeping her committee apprised of what goes on in Borga’s court—of who comes and goes, and of what matters are spoken. She will avouch in the strongest terms that the Hutts will ultimately be betrayed by the Yuuzhan Vong, and that Borga will be brought down. She will be quick to assure that the New Republic will one day prevail against the Yuuzhan Vong, and at that time my contributions to their defeat will become public knowledge and I will reap the benefits of my treachery by being awarded a position suitable to my new station in life. Perhaps a palace here on Coruscant, or a political appointment to the world of my choice.”
The Twi’lek waited until he was certain that Golga was finished. “I should inform her, then, that Your Highness is not interested in speaking with her?”
Golga blinked and wet his lips with his fat, pointed tongue. Lending voice to what heretofore had been most private musings had accorded them a sudden credibility. Under the guise of sufferance, he motioned with his tiny hands.
“No. Show her in. But make sure she understands that I have a flight to catch.”
The Twi’lek bowed graciously and left the chambers. When he returned a moment later he was accompanied by a comely, dark-haired human female, on whom even normally drab senatorial garb looked like evening wear. Golga was a Besadii, but he had more than a touch of Desilijic in his veins, which accounted for a certain partiality to human females. Watching Viqi Shesh, he envisioned her dancing for him, or fetching him succulent morsels of living food. Of greater surprise than her beauty was the fact that she had apparently come alone, without so much as an interpreter.
Golga arranged himself on the couch and motioned Shesh to the closest of several comfortable chairs. “Never let it be said,” he began in Basic when his secretary had exited, “that Golga Besadii Fir is one to allow unique opportunities to pass him by.”
Shesh smiled with purpose. “I’m glad to hear that, Consul Golga. It simplifies matters.”
Golga licked his lips.
“As you may or may not know, recent information has come to light, indicating that the Yuuzhan Vong intend to attack Tynna.”
“Tynna? I know nothing of this.”
“Certain parties thought it odd that no spice was being delivered to Tynna, and they brought this matter to the attention of New Republic Intelligence. Given the Hutts’ alliance with the enemy, members of the Intelligence community had to ask themselves whether the suspension of deliveries was perhaps a cloaked message from Borga—a way for her to reveal the intentions of the Yuuzhan Vong without actually saying as much.”
Golga grappled with what he was hearing. “Clearly you know more about these matters than I do, Senator. In any event, you certainly can’t expect me to speak for Borga.”
“You are her envoy, are you not?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then don’t concern yourself with speaking for Borga. Simply listen as she might.”
Insulted, Golga had an impulse to have Shesh escorted from the chambers, but then thought better of it. “I’m listening, Senator—as Borga would.”
Shesh flashed a warmer smile. “Should the intelligence about Tynna prove reliable, one has to wonder if the suspension of spice deliveries to Bothawui and Corellia might signal threats to those systems, as well. Or”—she held up a meticulously manicured forefinger—“whether this is merely what the Yuuzhan Vong would like us to think, while they devise an entirely different attack.”
She gave Golga a moment to ponder it, then continued. “You see, the senate and the Defense Force are very divided on just this issue. With New Republic fleets widely dispersed to protect the Core Worlds, a decision has to be reached on whether additional ships should be deployed at Bothawui or Corellia.”
Golga laughed. “Senator, I haven’t the slightest idea what the Yuuzhan Vong plan to do next. Furthermore, it is ludicrous to assume that Borga has been made privy to their plans.”
Shesh crossed her legs and leaned forward. “You can assure me of that?”
“I can. Everyone has attached too much import to this so-called alliance. Borga and the clan leaders of the Grand Council wished to avoid a war at all costs. To do so required that we allow the Yuuzhan Vong access to certain worlds in our space—worlds of little consequence—which they intend to mine for resources or remake in some way. Granted, this is a form of aiding and abetting the enemy, but the end result would have been the same had we
opted to go to war. We are powerful, but not as powerful as the enemy.”
“The Hutts managed to hold the Empire at bay,” Shesh pointed out. “Delaying the Yuuzhan Vong would have helped.”
“I won’t deny it. But our society would have been destroyed. We have always believed in keeping to ourselves, Senator. We have never attempted to intrude on New Republic space—well, there was that one regrettable episode involving Durga. But other than that, we Hutts have been content to move spice, indulge ourselves with food, drink, music, and dance. We are not warriors, Senator, much less warlords.”
Shesh’s eyes narrowed in thought. “So you are only trying to preserve what you have. You’re not actually siding with the Yuuzhan Vong.”
“We are not.”
“And should they defeat the New Republic?”
“If I may speak plainly, we’ll go on as we always have—poorer, perhaps, for not selling spice, or wealthier from selling even more than we do now.”
“To the miserable, defeated masses,” Shesh said, loosing a short laugh.
As the statement didn’t beg a response, Golga didn’t offer one.
“I want you to deliver a message to Borga, Consul. Tell her that while the fleets are deployed elsewhere, the New Republic would like nothing more than to see the Yuuzhan Vong attack Corellia. They have a surprise in store—including a big shiny toy that could spell trouble for your new overlords. But tell her also that this information is offered as a means of redressing an earlier wrong. Borga won’t understand, but there are those who will.”
Golga stared at her. “If I didn’t know better,” he said at last, “I would be tempted to surmise that you are supplying me with intelligence that would be of great value to the Yuuzhan Vong.”
Shesh shrugged. “Think what you will.”
“Nevertheless, how do I know that this isn’t simply disinformation, designed to make the Hutts look like fools?”
