wives and families he had never had time to build. It had always been the
work, first, last, and in the middle. The lane not taken included watching
the younglings venture out of the caves for the first time, hearing the
sounds of childish laughter, feeling the warmth of a spouse or spouses in a
bed under a cooling sheet. Things he had planned to do, someday, when he had
time. Only, it had never worked out that way. "Your brow furrows in
thought," she said. He sighed. "A few regrets in my old age." She grinned.
"Not that old." "I thought I reminded you of your grandfather." "You do-but
our family started young. He's still fit and active, my grandfather. Six
wives, fourteen children, twenty-six grandchildren, and he took a new spouse
just two seasons past. She's already with child," "Impressive,"
"Do you ever think about returning to the home-world?"
He nodded. "I have. More and more, lately. Chasing after wars does get
old. I've considered quitting the field, getting a local news beat back on
Sullust, and trying to find a few ancient ferns desperate enough to consider
me as a husband."
"They wouldn't have to be desperate," she said, looking down at the
tops of her feet. "Or ancient."
Den stopped walking and looked at her. "Uh ... perhaps my ear dampeners
are malfunctioning. What are you saying, Eyar-ia?" Eyar glided to a halt as
well, and turned to face him directly.
"After this war ends, and my tour breaks up, I plan on returning home
and finding a cohabitation cave."
"What? And leave show business?"
She laughed again-it sounded like a cascade of tone-crystals-then
continued. "The prospects I know are young, but serious mascs. Don't get me
wrong; they'd be good fathers, and I hope to collect one or two more like
them, hut they're maybe lacking a bit in the sense-of-humor department.
There would always be room for a Sullustan of your cut, Den-la."
Den was astonished. He grinned at Eyar. "That's the best offer I've had
in a boukk's age."
"Then consider it formal," she said. "Younglings need fit and strong
fathers, but they also need older and wiser ones. You would honor my cave if
you chose to live in it."
Den blinked against the sudden welling in his eyes. Impossible that
they could be tears-not for a crusty old cynic like him. Marriage? A family?
A cave full of in-laws and younglings? He had thought all that was too far
in his past, out of reach. Not for him. A hard-bitten reporter, decades away
from the homeworld, he had always figured he'd die on a battlefield, or
drunk in some pesthole hive of scum and villainy.
But now, to be offered an alternative, especially by one so young and
sweet. . .
"Please consider it," she said, mistaking his hesitation for a possible
negative response.
"You know what? If I live past the end of this war, I believe I will
try to find my way home." Den paused, took a deep breath, then said, "It
would honor me to join my cave with yours."
She smiled, a broad, delightful expression. "Really? It would?"
Her enthusiasm washed over him, full of energy and cheer. "I can't wait
to tell my family! Den Dhur, the famous reporter, joining us!"
"Not so famous."
"You hide your sconce under a shield, Den-la. I've been reading your
stories for years. Everybody on Sullust knows who you are."
"Not nice to mock your elders," he said with false severity.
"Nonsense. It's true. In my home-warren there are younglings who want
to grow up to be you."
"No mopak? Uh, I mean-"
She laughed. "No mopak," she said. She reached out and caught his hand.
"Perhaps you'd like to come back to my cubicle and seal the vow? Unless, of
course, you're too busy with your story . . . ?"
Den smiled. "The story can wait. It's not that important." And even as
he said it, he realized it was true. In the end, there really were things
more important than tomorrow's newsdisc, or even easy money.
Who would've thought it?
As Den left Eyar's kiosk, it was already getting dark. He saw I-Five
standing outside the OT, talking to Jos. The surgeon said something to the
droid, then turned and went back inside. "I-Five, old buddy!"
The droid turned and saw him. Den swaggered up to him and punched him
playfully in one arm. "Goodt'see you. What's up?" "Besides you?"
Den giggled as the two of them walked through the muggy evening air.
Eyar had opened a bottle of fine Bothan grain wine to celebrate their
possible nuptial agreement, and it had put up little resistance. He wasj
feeling just fine, all around. While at ù Eyar's, he'd confirmed via his
comm the bota story's probable veracity from three separate sources whom he
trusted. He was now in a mood to celebrate.
"Hey, I'm just feeling a little friendly. Don't knock it till you've
tried it," he told the droid. "Speaking of which, we still got to get you
into the club."
"And what club might that be?"
Den wagged a finger at him. "Don't tell me you're backing out. You must
experience the joys of intoxication. It'll be good for your silicon soul."
"Ah, yes. As a matter of fact, I believe I've come up with an absurdly
simple way to do it. I'm embarrassed I didn't think of it before."
"Do tell, then."
"I am, as I was just reminding Doctor Vandar, a machine, essentially.
My synaptic grid processor is heuristic-I extrapolate new data from known
data. But I also have an algorithmic subprocessor that serves my auro-nomic
needs."
"Okay..."
"You didn't understand a word of that, did you?"
"I believe I got also, and my."
"It's like your parasympathetic nervous system, which controls your
breathing, heartbeat, and so forth- functions your body needs that aren't
under conscious control. While I don't need to breathe, I do need constant
monitoring of things like balance, lubrication, powerbus functioning. . ."
"Right, got it," Den said. "But what's this got to do with tying one
on?"
"Simple. My subprocessor is programmable. I can encode it to simulate a
state of inebriation."
Den stopped and stared at him. "You can program yourself to get drunk?
I thought you couldn't mess around with your systems."
"The hardware is protected. I have some leeway with the software, now
that my full memories have returned."
"How long would it take you?" There was a slight but unmistakable hint
of snobbery in I-Five's voice as he answered. "I have a SyntheTech AA-One
nanoprocessor, operating at seven petahertz, with a five-exabyte capacity. I
wrote the program just after I mentioned it to you. It took me six-point-one
picoseconds to encode the basic algorithm and calculate its functional
parameters."
"Wow. That's . . . fast."
They stopped to let a small flock of R4 astromechs toll by, beeping and
whistling at each other. "So, when are you going to implement the program?
Or get mopak-faced, as we organics say."
"No time like the present. As you organics say."
Den considered. "Okay. I guess you could do it anywhere. But the
re's
custom to be observed, trust me on this. Besides, I'd like to join you. I've
got a nice little buzz on, and I don't mind keeping it going. And it's
getting close to sabacc time. Everyone'll be there."
"Wonderful. Nothing like an audience."
Den made an after-you gesture toward the cantina, then fell in behind
I-Five.
There was an old saying on Nedij-you are never more than seven wings
away from the Great Raptor. Stretched to fit the entire galaxy, that number
went up considerably, of course, but the principle was the same: talk to
somebody who knew somebody who knew somebody else, and so on, until, in what
was always an amazingly short list, you found that you were able to link up
with just about anybody.
Kaird, now comfortably and gratefully back in the robes of The Silent,
stood in the gathering shade of a building thunderstorm, watching the food
service tech leave the main chow hall kitchens and head for her communal
kiosk. The proverb's truth was even simpler here, on a world peopled
entirely by occupying forces, with no indigenes of its own. With this
female, he was but two sets of hands away from the pilot of the ship he
intended to steal.
The female, a Twi'lek named Ord Vorra, had a relationship with Biggs
Bogan, a human pilot, who was one of a trio of such in the rotation to fly
the admiral's personal ship. This Twi'lek-human relationship was noteworthy
for an unusual-at least here on this world- reason: Vorra and Bogan were
both Strag players, and both of them were ranked Adepts. The ancient game of
strategy and tactics, played on a simple hologrammic board with a dozen
pieces on each side, was an intellectual pursuit that required an excellent
memory, and years of practice, to achieve mastery. Kaird himself was passing
familiar with the game, but had never been able to give it the time
necessary to reach the level of Adept. That there were two such on a planet
like Drongar was most unusual, and so, naturally, they would have found each
other.
A ship's pilot and a kitchen worker, both of them Strag Adepts. Just
went to show you that the galaxy was a strange place-a fact of which Kaird
had long been aware.
He moved across the compound, staying well back from the Twi'Iek as he
shadowed her. If she noticed him, likely she would not think much of one of
The Silent out taking an evening stroll, but best not to take chances.
A warm breeze, heralding the coming rain, barely stirred the humidity,
adding a small bit of freshness to the fetid air. He had already checked out
the communal living quarters in which the Twi'lek lived-much too crowded for
his uses, and always somebody around. But Vorra and Bogan had no doubt found
places where they could be alone, since constant noise and motion were
distractions that Strag players preferred to avoid. Not that they couldn't
tune such things out-an Adept, it was said, could plan four moves ahead in
the middle of a Pilu-vian salamander-storm-they just would rather not. So
Kaird was confident that, sooner or later, the Twi'lek and the human would
seek out a place where they could be together without other company, and
that place would be a potential contact point for Kaird.
He had no interest Jn Vorra, save as a conduit to Bogan. Bogan, who, on
the days when he was on standby for ferrying Admiral Kersos about, would
have the new security codes for the admiral's ship. Kaird would learn when
that was, and then it was just a matter of how and when to gather what he
needed . . .
Ord Vorra stopped at the stores kiosk. Kaird drifted into the deep
shadow of one of the industrial recyclers across the lane from the supply
building and became effectively invisible.
The wind picked up, and the smell of the coming rain grew heavier.
Kaird waited and sweated. The dome would not slow the rain coming, nor the
evaporating puddles from leaving. When force-shields and -domes were first
experimented with, ages ago, such things had not always been taken into
consideration, and the result had often caused much discomfort-and worse-for
the residents. A force-dome that filled with greenhouse gases that could not
escape, allowing water vapor to condense on the inner aspect and causing
thick fog or more rain-not to mention a sudden lack of breathable air-these
were all bad things. And so the newly repaired dome had been set to pretty
much the same environmental parameters as it had before the "winter glitch,"
as it was now referred to. Which meant they were back to weather that would
steam the hide off a dewback.
The new admiral had apparently inherited the old admiral's personal
vessel, or at least the use of it. Kaird approved of this. The vessel in
question was a modified Surronian assault ship, a sleek craft powered by a
quad cluster of A2- and A2.50-grade engines. It was fast in atmosphere,
according to what Kaird had learned- comparable to a Naboo N-l
starfighter-but, more importantly, it was fast to lightspeed, also. Not to
mention being armed with fire-linked ion and laser cannons, and, while less
than thirty meters in length, sufficiently fueled and comfortable for a long
flight, with more than enough range to get him off this mudball and back to
Black Sun's headquarters on Coruscant.
Once he was there, and his business was done, it was his intention to
somehow keep the ship and use it to get back to his real home.
Back to the snow-dusted mountains of Nedij . . .
The Twi'lek emerged from the store, carrying a small package. She was
not unattractive, if one's desires ran to featherless bipeds, though she was
much too heavy for Kaird's taste. Nediji females were hollow-boned and
willowy, and that standard was hardwired into male Nediji's brains.
She moved off into the gathering dusk, and Kaird resisted the urge to
follow immediately. No need to rush. He had his quarry, and now he would
learn everything germane to his needs about them. He would obtain their
medical records from Lens. From a clerk in Personnel, he would get their
service information. A censor in Comm Intercept would provide copies of
communications, if any, the pair had sent or received from family or
friends,
In a day, probably less, he would have amassed as much intel about
these two as anybody here could possibly need to know. Then, when he had
enough information, he would find a keystone, a link, a glitch-some small
bit of data around which he would build a plan, Not a perfect plan, perhaps,
but Kaird had learned many things in his years with Black Sun, and he
counted this as one of the most important: it didn't have to be perfect, One
always had to leave some looseness for variables.
He would also think of ways that would cover any contingencies, of
course. Then he would put things into motion. All things going well, it
would slide like a greased mynock over transparisteel. Even if there were
problems, he could deal with them. It would still happen.
A few days from now, he would be in his new ship, with a cargo valued
far beyond easy measure, on his way to turn it in, and then
to take an early
retirement. And to live happily thereafter, until the Final Flight. . .
There was a flash of lightning, an almost immediate clap of thunder to
reveal how close the strike had been-very close-and the rain started
falling, fat, heavy drops,
Time to get indoors, Kaird thought. He'd done enough for tonight. It
was best, he knew, not to get too far ahead in his plans. It was always good
to remember his egg-mother's recipe for taboret stew: first, you must catch
a taboret. . .
Column was not without regret, or even remorse, as the coded message
was sent to the spy's Separatist superiors, There had been a moment of
hesitation, a long and reflective pause-but in the end, one did what one had
to do. The control function was initiated, the information transmitted. And
it could not be recalled, once it was gone.
The transmission was accomplished without difficulty, even though
communications all over the base had been subject recently to noise and loss
of signal. This was because the area had been covered not long ago by a new,
state-of-the-art broadband confounder stationed in the jungle about five
kilometers away. The blockage wasn't consistent enough to arouse suspicion,
but it did provide cover and protection when the spy had to send and
receive. The official explanation, of course, was sunspots.
The code, as always, was cumbersome and overwrought, and most of the
time a major waste of effort, but in this instance the intricacy of it was
useful. One most certainly did not want the Republic to intercept and read
this particular missive.
On the other end of the communication the deciphered message would
undoubtedly cause much consternation- to put it mildly. That they would
disbelieve it was to be expected. Column knew there would be follow-up
exchanges, at least one or two, perhaps more, to verify the information. It
was not a matter of trust, per se, but of certainty: if a large-scale attack
was to be launched, if massive forces were to be gathered and expended, such
things could not be done with any possibility of some code reader's simple
error.
What? No, I didn't say that the bota is going bad, / said Bothans are
far too sad . . .
Column smiled, but the smile quickly faded. The mission here was coming
to an end. If not a blow that could topple the Republic, this last strike
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