Crucible: Star Wars

by Troy Denning

  OF COURSE, Marvid replied. BASE PRIME, GALACTIC SYNDICATED, THE GATE—EVERYTHING WE HAVE. THAT IS WHAT MAKES HER SPECIAL.

  IT MAKES HER A THREAT, Craitheus objected. I CALCULATE A 52 PERCENT CHANCE THAT SHE LET THE JEDI ESCAPE AND DELIBERATELY LED THEM HERE TO FORCE OUR HAND.

  WHICH MAKES HER A MORE CUNNING COMMANDER THAN MIRTA GEV, Marvid countered. To Savara, he said, “The Mandalorians will never take orders from you. You would need to work through Gev.”

  “Gev is a soldier,” Savara said. “She understands the chain of command—as long as Craitheus makes it clear who’s running things.”

  Do YOU THINK I HAVE A BLEEDING CEREBRUM? Craitheus transmitted. I SEE WHAT YOU ARE PLANNING. I SEE HOW YOU DOTE ON THE GIRL.

  I HAVE NEVER PUT SAVARA AHEAD OF OUR PARTNERSHIP, Marvid shot back. YOU, ON THE OTHER HAND, WERE TEMPTED BY CALRISSIAN’S PLOY.

  THERE IS A DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ANALYZING AND ACCEPTING, Craitheus replied. YOU WOULD HAVE DONE THE SAME.

  “Do we have a deal or not?” Savara demanded. “I need time to organize our defenses here—or to slip away, if you two are determined to get yourselves killed.”

  Marvid continued to glare at his brother. WE NEED HER TO HANDLE THE JEDI.

  Craitheus let his chin drop in acknowledgment. BUT WE CANNOT GIVE HER COMMAND OF THE NARGONS. SHE IS AMBITIOUS, AND IF SHE COMMANDS THE NARGONS—

  SHE WILL TAKE EVERYTHING, Marvid finished. SHE IS DANGEROUS THAT WAY.

  THEN WE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER, Craitheus said.

  Marvid spun his powerbody toward the exit. “Very well, Lady Raine.” He used a manipulator arm to motion Savara after him. “Come along. We’ll give Mirta Gev the unhappy news together.”

  Instead of following, Savara turned toward Craitheus. “And you’re in agreement?” she asked. “I am in command of Base Prime’s defense?”

  “Oh, complete agreement.” Craitheus gave her a sly smile. “What other choice have you left us?”

  Twenty

  The way Han saw the game now, the problem was Ditto’s eye. She was afraid the pain of having it burned—even if it was only a simulated burn—would leave it blind. So, after Gev refused to allow Han’s string bet, Ditto had called Barduun’s bet of a broken nose and hoped the next chip-card would save her.

  It hadn’t, and now she was sitting on a twelve-card hand, facing a very painful session with the torture droid. If Ditto’s score wasn’t a bomb-out already, it soon would be. Meanwhile, Barduun was sitting next to her, drinking in all that fear she was pouring into the Force.

  “The bet’s to you, Solo,” Gev reminded him. Her finger was poised over the zapper button, ready to give him another brain jolt if he tried to cheat again. “We checking it around?”

  “Not this time.”

  As Han spoke, he was watching Barduun, looking for the dusky tell that would suggest the fiend was worried. It wasn’t there.

  So Barduun had a pretty decent score, and Han had absolute zero. The smart play would be to bet small and keep the hand going, hoping Barduun would make a mistake or suffer a bad card shift.

  But the Qrephs were out of the game, which meant they were thinking about something other than Han Solo. And that had to change. Han needed to do something to set them off, to keep their minds on him instead of on the Jedi coming for them.

  Han turned toward Gev. “Now I bet death, and I call the—” He stopped when Gev’s finger started to descend toward the button, then smiled and said, “Oh … that’s right. I can’t do that yet.”

  “Cute, Solo,” Gev said. “I should scramble your brains for trying to call the hand out of sequence.”

  Han shrugged. “As long as the death bet stands.” He paused, trying to think of a way to scare Ditto into folding, then finally decided he had no choice but to cheat by announcing his intention to end the hand. “I can always call the hand after—”

  Gev’s finger came down, and the probe needles in his head unleashed a blast of crackling pain. He slumped in his chair, shuddering and half paralyzed, until Ohali Soroc’s red Duros eyes grew even larger and rounder than usual.

  “Stop!” Ohali said. “It is no fault of Captain Solo’s if you have fallen for the Qrephs’ false promises.”

  Good, Han thought. Ohali understood his plan.

  Gev glared at Ohali, then released the button. “This has nothing to do with the Qrephs,” she said. “Solo was cheating again.”

  “You punish Captain Solo for speaking out of turn,” Ohali said. “Yet you work for the Qrephs when you know they will renege on their promises.”

  “They’ve paid me so far,” Gev said.

  “Sure, while th-th-they … still need you,” Han said, beginning to recover from the jolt. If he could make Gev really angry, she might forget about Ohali long enough for the Duros to disable the brain-zapper button. “But you’re a karking fool if you actually believe they can get rid of that nanokiller.”

  But Gev wouldn’t take the bait. She shook her head, then turned to Ditto. “The bet is to you.”

  “I have to withdraw.” Ditto gathered her chip-cards and sent them spinning into the discard pile, her shoulders slumping as she contemplated her losses. “When Captain Solo calls the hand, I’ll bomb out.”

  Han quickly turned to Barduun. “What about you?” He racked his brain trying to recall the Mandalorian word for coward. If he couldn’t get Gev to bite, maybe Barduun would take a swing at him. “You have the guts to call—or are you just another of Gev’s hut’uuns?”

  Seemingly unfazed, Barduun studied Han for a moment, then shook his head. “Jhonus Raam folds.”

  “I knew you’d fold!” Han let out a whoop, then flipped his chip-cards over, revealing his score of absolute zero. “Look at that, fool!”

  Usually, there was no faster way for a gambler to get punched than to gloat over a big bluff. But Barduun wasn’t falling for it. He shot Han a knowing sneer.

  “They would not have let you risk a coma, anyway,” Barduun replied, using the Force to return his own chip-cards to Gev. “The chiefs are not finished mapping your mind.”

  By then the torture droid was standing behind Ditto, waiting for her to turn around so he could collect her bets. Ditto was pretending not to notice, staring straight ahead and clearly frightened. Deciding the key to making Barduun mad would be to deny his appetite for fear, Han waved the droid away.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “She doesn’t have to pay. I don’t want her pain.”

  Ditto looked up, her blue brow raised in hope. “You are forgiving my debt?”

  “Sure thing.” Han glanced at Barduun and was pleased to see an angry glower directed his way. “Pain isn’t really my thing. Besides, no one wants to keep playing.”

  “I do,” Barduun said.

  Han shrugged. “Suit yourself, but I’m done.” He looked across the table at Gev. “Barduun doesn’t have to pay, either. I just want—”

  “No.”

  To Han’s surprise, the objection came not from Barduun but from the doorway behind him. Two pairs of heavy feet pounded across the floor, then a huge green arm stretched over his shoulder to point at Ditto.

  “The game continues,” said a gravelly Nargon voice. “Those are the orders we have.”

  Han twisted around and found both Nargons standing two meters behind him. Their blaster rifles were still holstered at their knees, but he knew better than to attack. Leia had been hard-pressed to bring down just one of the things, and she had been using a lightsaber. All Han had going for him was that nobody expected him to be crazy enough to try something.

  But crazy was better than giving up. He glanced across the table and nodded to Ohali—and saw Mirta Gev reaching for the brain-zapper button again.

  “Don’t even think …” Gev let the threat trail off when her hand suddenly reversed directions and rose beyond reach of the button. “What the brix?”

  For an instant, Han thought Ohali had used the Force to keep him from being zapped. But she looked just as confused as Han d
id, and it was Barduun’s hand that he saw gesturing in Gev’s direction.

  Gev seemed to figure it out at the same time Han did. “Barduun, what the hell are you doing?”

  Barduun glanced in Han’s direction. Go.

  Whether the voice had sounded in his ears or only in his head, Han could not tell—and he didn’t care. He slid out of his chair and down onto the floor, a hundred sharp stings stabbing his head as the probe needles tore free. In the next moment, he was sitting on his rump, surrounded by ankles and knees, with ribbons of bright color dancing through his vision and sweet birdsong chiming in his ears.

  That couldn’t be good.

  Gev’s muffled voice sounded through the tabletop. “Don’t just stand there, you finheads!” Her hands appeared beneath the table, reaching down toward her ankle. “Stop them!”

  Of course. Gev’s dealer outfit didn’t include a sidearm, and when it came to weapons, Mandalorians never went “naked.” Forcing himself to spin around, Han leaned back and reached over his head, hooking his hands behind Gev’s ankles. She cried out in alarm and kicked at him, but Han was already pulling, dragging her out of her chair. As she tried to twist away, her head struck the table with a satisfying thump. Then her hands withdrew, grabbing at the arms of her chair.

  A pair of loud crashes shook the room as someone—either Ohali or Barduun—Force-hurled the Nargons back toward the door. Han turned his head and spotted four scaly legs—all he could see of the guards from beneath the table—bouncing off the far wall. Their green hands quickly dropped into view, reaching for the blaster rifles in their holsters.

  Han clutched Gev’s ankles as tightly as he could with one hand, then rolled to his belly and used his free hand to push up her pant leg.

  She kicked him in the head, and he smelled Leia’s perfume.

  Han held tight and shook the effect off. The next time he had a bunch of probe needles stuck in his brain, he would try to find a better way to get them out. His hand reached Gev’s calf and felt two heavy neolene straps, then it found a small sheath hanging on her shin.

  Gev kicked him again, even harder, and the birdsong in Han’s head became a cacophony of cockpit damage alarms. He slipped a slender hilt out of the sheath and found himself armed with a vibroknife. He activated the blade and immediately sank it into the leg that had been assaulting him.

  Gev screamed and began to kick at Han with her other foot. He blocked with his free arm, then saw her hand shooting down toward her knee, clutching at her pant leg as she tried to reach her second weapon.

  Han slashed the vibroknife up, down, then up again and felt a neolene strap come apart. Gev landed a knife-hand strike that snapped Han’s head to the side and had him tasting salt. But a palm-sized holster was already dropping out of her shredded pant leg into a warm cascade of blood. Han snatched the weapon and retreated from her flailing feet, then unsnapped the keeper strap and withdrew a powerful little MandalTech W202 holdout blaster.

  By then the perfume smell was beginning to seem more like sweat, and the chiming in his ears had given way to the screech and sizzle of blaster fire. Han released the W202’s safety catch, then raised his hand—only to find himself looking at the bottom of Gev’s chair as she toppled backward to spare herself a bolt through her stomach.

  There was a reason Mandalorians made good mercenaries: quick reflexes and even quicker thinking. Han fired into the bottom of the chair anyway—and nearly lost an ear when one of the underpowered bolts ricocheted back.

  Even with a slashed-up leg, Gev would be back in the fight soon. From what Han could see, the Nargons were directing most of their fire toward Barduun’s end of the table. Han rolled the other way and began to crawl.

  He had gone about two arm lengths when a thunderous crack shook the room. Everything strobed blue, and the floor shuddered beneath his hands and knees. For an instant he thought his brain had blown its main breaker—then he realized that the blaster rifles had stopped screeching.

  He glanced toward the door and found both Nargons pinned against the wall. Their heavy tails were slamming the floor in mad convulsions, and their legs were dancing beneath crooked lines of Force lightning.

  “Get their blasters!” Barduun boomed.

  Han scrambled from beneath the table. Barduun stood at the other end, both arms extended as he continued to blast the Nargons with Force lightning.

  Han blinked, hard—but he felt pretty sure he wasn’t hallucinating. A Mandalorian, spraying Force lightning.

  “Their blasters!” Barduun repeated.

  “Uh, sure thing, pal.” Han eyed the long green fingers still wrapped around the stocks of the blaster rifles, then tucked Gev’s holdout blaster into his waistband and started forward with the vibroknife. “Got it covered.”

  Ohali Soroc pulled him back with the Force. “Allow me.”

  He turned to find the Duros raising a hand toward the nearest Nargon. She tore the Nargon’s weapon free and floated it over to Han. He tucked the vibroknife into his waistband alongside the holdout blaster and took the rifle, then turned to keep an eye on the back of the room.

  Ditto still sat in her chair, a look of shock on her face and a smoking crater in her forehead. Gev was nowhere to be seen, but a blood smear on the floor led toward the wet bar on the adjacent wall.

  “Forget Gev,” Barduun said, still blasting the Nargons with Force lightning—and starting to sound tired. As soon as Ohali had the second blaster rifle in hand, Barduun began to back toward an iris hatch in the room’s rear corner. “This way.”

  Han pointed his blaster rifle toward the main door, next to the two Nargons. “Isn’t that the way out?”

  “Did Jhonus Raam offer you a choice?” Barduun reached the rear hatch and looked toward the control panel, then used the Force to enter an access code. “Come along or die. That is your choice.”

  Barduun lowered his hands, and the Force lightning sizzled out. The two Nargons immediately began to stumble forward—slow and shaky, but not so shaky that Han felt like trying to dodge past them. Hoping a heavy blaster rifle would do something against the reptiloids, he opened fire.

  The bolts bounced off, but they were more effective than his pistol had been at the Red Ronto. At least these weapons singed the scales.

  The Nargons’ tails began to swish back and forth, and their gait grew steadier.

  “Uh, maybe we’d better go with the big guy after all,” Han said.

  “Agreed.” Ohali was already backing toward the hatch. “For now.”

  Han joined her, and they each raised a rifle to target a Nargon. By the time they had backed through the hatchway into the corridor beyond, both reptiloids had huge scorch circles on their torsos. And both reptiloids were continuing to advance.

  Han dropped his aim to the knees and was relieved to see two bolts penetrate. The Nargon kept coming, but at least there were a couple of spurts of blue blood.

  Barduun reached for the control panel on their side of the hatch, and both Nargons hurled themselves forward. Han switched to firing at the head and managed to shave the skull crest off his target. Ohali put a bolt through the eye of hers, and Han saw the reptiloid go limp—just before the iris hatch closed around its outstretched arm.

  The hatch gave a mechanical wheeze and continued to contract around the Nargon’s muscular forearm. The scales shattered with a series of loud pops, then the hatch leaves sliced through its flesh clear down to the vanalloy.

  “Blast!” Barduun cursed. He pointed at the control panel. “Kill it. Maybe that will give us enough time.”

  Han blew the panel cover off with a couple of blaster bolts. “Enough time for what, exactly?”

  When Barduun did not answer immediately, Han passed his rifle to Ohali and began to sort through control-panel wires, using his vibroknife to strip insulation and reroute circuits.

  “Enough time for what?” he demanded again.

  “To free the princess,” Barduun called back. By the sound of his voice, he was already ten m
eters down the corridor behind them. “Jhonus Raam is her only hope!”

  Han turned to Ohali. “Princess?”

  Ohali shrugged. “Who knows?”

  Han finished jamming the hatch, then retrieved his blaster rifle and turned to survey the corridor. On one side, a floor-to-ceiling transparisteel wall overlooked an empty courtyard. On the opposite side stood five large air locks and not much else. Barduun was at the third air lock, holding the hatch open and looking impatient.

  “I don’t like this,” Han said quietly. “Any idea where we are?”

  Ohali pointed to the air locks. “Those open into the fabrication labs, where the Qrephs create the Nargons and the … copies, I suppose.”

  “Like Ditto?”

  Ohali hesitated, then said, “Yes … among others.”

  Han turned and looked out across the courtyard. On the far side sat a large arch-roofed hangar. It couldn’t be more than a hundred meters distant, but Han had stood on the surface of enough airless moons to recognize a hard vacuum when he saw one.

  There was no easy way across the courtyard. If they wanted to reach the hangar, they would have to fight back through the room they had just left, then work their way through the barracks annex.

  Still looking out across the courtyard, Han asked Ohali, “I don’t suppose there’s an underground tunnel or something that can get us from here to over there.”

  “Afraid not,” Ohali said. “As far as I can tell, this monolith doesn’t seem to have an underground anything.”

  Han’s gaze snapped back toward the Duros. “Monolith?” he repeated. “Then this is—”

  “Mortis?” Ohali shook her head. “It may be a Celestial monolith, but it’s not Mortis—at least, I hope it isn’t.”

  Han frowned. “Why’s that?”

  Ohali made a point of not looking in Barduun’s direction. “Because whatever Barduun has become,” she said, “I’m pretty sure it was the monolith that did it to him.”

  A sinister laugh echoed down the corridor from the third air lock, and Han looked over to see Barduun sneering at them in contempt.