by James Luceno
Short opened a case and handed Gaph a square of durasheet bearing an elaborate official seal. "This comes straight from Coruscant. Each letter of transit can list up to one hundred names, so we'd need five of them."
Gaph and R'vanna conferred for a moment. "This seal and the calligraphy are intentionally antiquated," Gaph said at last. "We'd need the proper tools, along with the inks and such."
Tall shrugged. "Whatever you need." /
"What's in this for us?" Melisma asked before anyone else could.
The same man shrugged. "That's entirely up to you. Clothing, food, furniture, you name it."
She gazed at him. "How about transport off Ruan?"
Again, the two men traded glances. "How many are you?" the first asked.
"Thirty-seven-including an infant."
Tall deliberated, nodding his head slowly. "We just might be able to arrange that."
"Only to Abregado-rae, you understand," his partner added. "No alternative destinations."
Gaph glanced at Melisma, R'vanna, and some of the others. "Abregado-rae would suit us fine."
Tall folded his arms. "Then here's how it's going to work We'll provide everything you need to forge the permits. If we're satisfied that they'll pass muster with Salliche Ag and the spaceport authorities here on Ruan, you've got yourselves a deal."
"I am Plaan," Tholatin's Weequay security chief said as he joined Droma and Han in the Falcon's forward hold.
Plaan had the thumbs of his big hands hooked into the broad gunbelt that gathered a quilted, knee-length garment the color of Sriluur's desert wastes. His broad-nosed, desiccated face was deeply creased, and dark age spots showed on the almond-shaped bony plate that reinforced his skull from brow ridge to spine. His deep-set eyes gave him a haunted, fearsome aspect. Behind him stood two mean-spirited humans in camouflage combat suits, one cradling a new-generation blaster rifle, the other a twenty-year-old BlasTech E-l 1, which had been the weapon of choice among Imperial stormtroopers. Half a dozen other humans and aliens were inspecting various parts of the ship. Han couldn't make out their muffled comments, but the mere thought of them pawing through his property filled him with rage. It took all the control he could summon to keep from going ballistic.
"My first mate, Miek," Droma said, gesturing offhandedly toward Han.
Plaan nodded. "Sorry about having to search ship, Captain Droma. Furnished passcodes checked out. But as things are now, even we must take precautions." A being more apt to communicate by pheromones than words, Plaan spoke in a clipped and heavy accent.
With the hyperdrive behaving erratically, it had been a long, slow trip to Tholatin, an uninhabited world, save for a deep, almost undetectable rift legions of smugglers had used over the years. The Falcon-going under the name Sunlight Franchise-had been directed to a landing zone on the floor of the forested cleft, but berthing spaces and maintenance areas were located under a ceiling of cantilevered rock at the base of a sheer cliff. Although he had taken heart that the old passcodes had worked, Han was troubled by the motley nature of some of the berthed ships.
"You have been to Esau's Ridge before?" Plaan asked suddenly, studying Han with interest.
"Not in a lot of years."
"Back then, who running things?"
Han stroked his beard, as if in hazy recollection. "Let's see, there was Bracha e'Naso. And an information broker named Formyaj-a Yao, as I remember."
Plaan nodded. "Long gone, with almost everyone from those days. Left when the Yuuzhan Vong pushed through on way to Hutt space." He glanced at Droma. "Where acquired, those passcodes, Captain?"
"From a friend on Nar Shaddaa," Droma said, as Han had instructed. "A human by the name of Shug Ninx."
Plaan nodded again. "Ninx is known to us. So you are coming from Nar Shaddaa?"
Droma had his mouth open to affirm that they'd arrived from Hutt space when a baritone voice rang out from the starboard ring corridor.
"Plaan, get a look at this."
Han and Droma followed the security chief into the corridor. Just where the outrigger cockpit branched off, two human members of the search team had discovered the removable panels that covered the secret compartments Han had used for smuggling, in what felt to him like another lifetime. Like Plaan, the two snoops had the rawboned look of mercenaries or pirates rather than smugglers, which jibed with the mix-and-match ships- the uglies-Han had observed in the berthing spaces.
Plaan was grinning bemusedly. "Smugglers?"
"Now and again," Droma said.
"Freelance or for Hutts?"
"We're independent contractors."
Plaan snorted. "Better ways of earning credits these days. Even Hutts have to take care. With Boss Bunji forced off Jubilee Wheel, not enough glitterstim on Ord Mantell to fill bantha's horn."
As he was saying it, a short man wearing mechanic's utilities entered the corridor from the extended landing ramp. "Looks like your ship has seen some recent action," he told Droma. "Whoever you were running from ruined your new anodizing."
Droma replied to Plaan's inquisitive look. "We encountered a Yuuzhan Vong patrol. Fortunately, we escaped with nothing more than a damaged power converter and hyperdrive."
The mechanic pursed his lips, glanced around, and nodded. "Vintage ship, but I think we can fix you up with the parts you need."
Plaan seemed to relax somewhat. "Would not have to worry about Yuuzhan Vong patrols if you knew the right people," he said as he followed Droma and Han back to the forward compartment.
Droma glanced at Han before saying, "Knowing the right people is something we've never been especially good at."
The security chief uttered a dour laugh. "Perhaps luck is about to change." He walked to the entrance to the port ring corridor, then into the adjacent circuitry bay. "How many passengers this crate carry?" he asked without turning around.
"She's smaller than she looks," Han answered, taking a few steps toward Plaan. "Belowdecks she's nothing but crawl space, and even if we packed passengers in like fingerfins, the air scrubbers and oxygen supply couldn't handle more than fifty or so-and then only for a few hours."
"Why do you ask?" Droma said.
Plaan turned and walked back into the hold. "Many here at Esau's Ridge do contract work for employer who has a direct line to Yuuzhan Vong."
Han watched Plaan. "Yeah, a couple of friends of ours were working for a guy who claimed to have a direct line to the Yuuzhan Vong, but when it came down to cases the guy was no help at all. Ever hear of the Peace Brigade?"
Plaan nodded slowly. "Outfit of Reck Desh."
"Same employer?"
"Same," Plaan confirmed. "But in kinds of activities Peace Brigade handled, we steer clear. Many risks. Relocation runs our specialty."
"Relocation runs," Han said.
"Private transport for refugees eager to escape New Republic camps."
Han's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Depending on what you charge for services, you're either a philanthropist or a predator."
Plaan laughed. "Because we receive large bonuses on back end , passengers pay only modest amounts."
"So this nameless contractor is the philanthropist?" Droma said.
"To earn bonuses, contractor requires that we deliver refugees to specific worlds-worlds that end up Yuuzhan Vong targets."
Han had to force his mouth to work. "You're recycling them. Refugees pay to leave one camp, find themselves caught up in an invasion, and end up in another camp." He fought down an urge to tear Plaan limb from limb. "And, of course, the Yuuzhan Vong are happy because you're making things all the more complicated for the New Republic relief workers."
Plaan shrugged. "Added burden for New Republic. But steady employment for us. Interested?"
"We might be," Droma said. "Do you have anything going at the moment?"
Plaan made a regretful sound as he cocked his head to one side. "Too bad you not arrive sooner. Some of our people moving a bunch off Ruan very soon."
Droma sat unstead
ily at the engineering station, determined not to look at Han. "Ruan?"
Han glanced briefly at him and began to pace. "Maybe we're not too late to join in," he said, only partially successful at keeping alarm and apprehension from his voice. He turned to Plaan. "How soon can we get the parts we need?"
THIRTEEN
In the dank and underlighted hold that served as both mess hall and dormitory for the privileged captives aboard the yammosk carrier, Wurth Skidder placed his bowl beneath the spout of the nutrient dispenser, waited while his allotted share drizzled out, then carried the bowl to his usual spot of deck space, where he lowered himself into a cross-legged posture and forced himself to eat.
Like all things Yuuzhan Vong, the container had surely been fashioned from some creature-perhaps from the egg of an outsize oviparous animal-and the spoon, though made of an exotic hardwood, bore no traces of carving or machining and appeared to have been grown with handle and bowl provided. Even the thick, tapered spout of the nutrient dispenser gave all evidence of being attached to some living thing that resided unseen on the far side of the hold's curved and membranous bulkhead.
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 Worth 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 invad
e 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 Ne w 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 Holo-Net 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.
