by Kathy Tyers
Manchisco frowned. “Small problem with her starboard shield. It’s fixed, but I had to let an Imperial maintenance team on board. All her specs are probably on Thanas’s computer now.” She thrust her hand into a deep pocket.
“Did they do good work, though?”
“Looks all right.” She shrugged. “I don’t know if I told you it’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance.”
“I like working with you, too. And I’m sure we’re not finished here.”
Her battle-hard face lost a few smug lines. “You’re the one who knows about these things, but I’ve got this odd feeling we won’t meet again.”
Another warning. Or had Manchisco experienced a premonition of her own? “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “The future is always in motion.”
She waggled her left hand. “Doesn’t matter. We do what we can, for as long as we can. Eh, Commander?”
“Exactly.” A two-seat speeder cruised through the gate to Pad 12, overloaded with four Alliance crewers. Just what he needed. Spaceport Authority had reclaimed the speeder he arrived in.
“Hot night downside,” Manchisco observed. “Let’s hope there wasn’t any more trouble.”
The crewers looked bleary-eyed but nonviolent. “I think they’re all right. Force be with you, Captain.” Luke commandeered the speeder and drove it out the perimeter road.
Five minutes later, he parked atop a residential tower. He found Senior Senator Belden’s apartment near the drop shaft, ran a hand over his hair and straightened his gray shipsuit, then touched the alarm panel.
While he waited for an answer, he glanced up the hall in both directions. This musty corridor, with plating peeled off several door frames, was a far cry from the Captison mansion. Perhaps the Belden family owned a finer home elsewhere, or maybe Governor Nereus made sure that the dissidents’ credit balances stayed slim.
The door slid aside. He stepped back. Gaeriel, here too? “I—” he stammered, “uh, hello. I was hoping to speak with Senator Belden.”
“He’s out.” She was sliding through the doorway into the hall when a cracked voice behind her called, “Let him in, Gaeri. Let him in.”
“That’s Madam Belden,” Gaeri whispered, “and she’s not well.” She touched her forehead. “Come in for a moment. Clis—her caregiver—had a family crisis, so I’m having tea this morning.”
“I’ll just say hello,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”
A wizened woman sat propped up on cushions in a brocade chair with wing-shaped armrests. She wore yellow-orange, almost the color of namana candy, and she’d dyed her sparse hair auburn. “You’re back, Roviden. Why did you stay away so long?”
Luke shot Gaeri a puzzled glance. “She thinks you’re their son,” Gaeri whispered against his ear. “He was killed in the purges, three years ago. She thinks every young man is their son. Don’t argue. It’s better.”
Was there an escape route? Luke saw spindly wooden furniture that was probably antique, a gray box that was probably electronic, and Gaeriel’s bare feet beneath her space-blue skirt and vest … but no way of gracefully evading a filial masquerade. Hesitantly he took Madam Belden’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “So much work to do. For the Rebellion, you know,” he added on a gamble: Son killed in the purges.
She squeezed his hand. “I knew you were working undercover somewhere, Roviden. They told me—oh, but it doesn’t matter. Gaeriel’s missing, you see, and—”
“No, she’s—” he began.
“I’m here, Eppie.” Gaeri sat down on a furry repulsor footstool.
“You’re—?” Madam Belden stared from Luke to Gaeri, shaking her head helplessly. “I’m—?” She shut her eyes and set her chin.
Gaeriel shrugged. “You’re fine, Eppie. Would a nap feel good?”
“Nap,” repeated the woman in a tired voice.
Luke followed Gaeriel back toward the door. “Tell me about Madam Belden. How long has she been like this?”
“Three years.” Gaeri shook her head sadly. “Unfortunately, she was deeply involved in resistance to the Empire. She broke down when Roviden died. It … destroyed her.”
“Maybe that’s why they let her live,” he guessed.
Gaeri’s sharp chin tilted angrily. “You can’t—”
Madam Belden thrashed in her chair. “Don’t leave without saying good-bye,” she cried.
Wedged too tightly into the awkwardness to run away, Luke hurried back and knelt beside Madam Belden. He cleansed his mind of concern and desires and focused inward, examining Madam Belden’s deep presence. It pulsed too powerfully for someone who needed full-time care. The mind remained, affecting the Force … creating a life pulse so strong that Luke guessed she had untrained strength of her own. But some of the links connecting mind to senses and communication didn’t operate. They’d been severed. The Empire did this, he guessed.
He blinked up into sad, watery eyes. Gaeriel was watching him from behind. If he used the Force, she might throw him out. Or she might begin to respect his abilities.
Regardless of what Gaeriel wanted, Eppie Belden needed healing. Luke stroked the spotted, bony hand. Should he go on pretending to be her son? That seemed like a dangerous dishonesty, using the Force. “I want to show you something,” he murmured, ignoring Gaeriel. That was hard. “If you can do this, you may be able to heal yourself.”
Her sense brightened and became eager.
“No,” he directed. “Be calm and still. Listen deep.” He pressed into her awareness and showed her how he had healed himself, traveling in hyperspace … the silence, the focus, the strength … and he made certain she saw, even if she didn’t understand, that he hadn’t been able to do it perfectly. Then he turned her focus inward. Something has been damaged, he told her. I think the Empire did it. Find it. Heal it. Fight back, Eppie. May the Force be with you. Yoda would’ve called her “too old for training,” but this wasn’t training. Not exactly. And, Yoda, she’s not going to go off chasing trouble like I did.
A wave of her gratitude washed him out of her mind. He inhaled deeply and pushed up off his knees. Eppie Belden rested against her cushions, eyes closed, breathing tranquilly.
“What did you do?” Gaeriel stood in an unconscious fighting stance.
Luke studied her eyes. Somehow the gray one calculated while the green one looked angry. “There’s still a very sharp awareness in there,” he murmured. “I don’t think her problem is natural. I really think she was harmed.”
Gaeriel hesitated. “Deliberately?”
Luke nodded. Feeling her hostility swing away from him, he stayed silent a moment longer and let her process the implications. Someone had harmed her. Who but the Empire? Then he elaborated, “I know a little about self-healing. I showed her something she might try. That’s all.”
“Is that so little for you?” she asked bitterly.
A non-Jedi couldn’t do that much. “I did nothing to her. My word as a … as an honorable man.”
At last she shrugged, dismissing the matter. “Come out here. Sit down.” She strode through a door arch into a white-tiled dining room, both hands brushing her long vest as she walked. She motioned him past a fragrant, simmering tea warmer toward a seat at a transparent table. “If you can do so much with the Force,” she said, “why don’t you simply get into a fighter, blast your way onto the Ssi-ruuvi flagship, and get rid of them?”
I might try it, if you told me to. He sighed away the impulse and explained, “If I used my powers in anger or aggression instead of for knowledge and defense, the dark side would take me. It took …” He strangled a terrible temptation. Some day, he must admit his ancestry. He almost wished he had it over with, but the time hadn’t arrived when his humbling, provocative revelation would count for something. Telling Gaeriel would be disastrous. “It took many Jedi. They became agents of evil, and had to be hunted down.”
“I should’ve guessed.” Gaeriel looked him up and down, then cocked an ear toward the
open door.
He might yet win her, through Eppie. “If she tries what I showed her, she might seem to sleep for … well, days.”
“That might be a blessing.” Relaxing, Gaeri crossed her ankles under the table. “What did you need to talk with Orn about?”
Oh, blast. Commanding the Flurry was easier than admitting this. “Some of your people attacked some of mine at the spaceport this morning. Mine had Alliance aliens with them, and yours thought they were Ssi-ruuk. I suspect Governor Nereus found some Bakurans who like trouble, and tried to make some for them.”
He felt her suspicion. “Were there casualties?”
“Two Bakurans. Princess Leia is making a formal apology,” he added hastily. “I wish we could do more. It shouldn’t’ve happened.” He glanced out a broad window. The morning sun was turning brilliant, but he felt chilly. He’d been warned. Somewhere out there, the Ssi-ruuk would soon be looking for him. He didn’t think he was in any serious danger, but he still wasn’t certain why they wanted him. What was he doing here, endangering Gaeriel and Madam Belden? “If Senator Belden has any thoughts on the incident, please have him contact me.” He stood up. “I hope Madam Belden improves. What I sensed underneath her troubles …” He searched for words. “I think I would have liked her. She was a fighter, wasn’t she?”
Gaeriel’s left eyebrow arched.
Great. He’d reminded her of his Jedi abilities again. Staring at the floor didn’t help either, because her bare feet suggested a lighthearted spirit. Except when I’m around. “Thanks. I’d better leave.”
He glanced at Madam Belden on his way to the door. She hadn’t moved. Gaeriel slipped out into the drab hallway behind him. “Luke,” she murmured, “thank you for trying.”
“Luke”—she finally used my name. He hurried to the roof port with a lighter heart.
Leia caught herself bustling as she led Threepio through a guarded door arch in the Bakur complex’s old Corporation Wing. Artoo wheeled silently behind, and Han followed at rear guard. Reddish wood paneled Prime Minister Captison’s inner office. His massive desk had been sawed freeform out of the weathered burl of some rain forest giant. He sat near its center, where a flat space had been carved and polished, and he was frowning.
Was she that late? Abruptly she realized he was frowning at Threepio and Artoo, not at her. She brandished the restraining-bolt Owner to show Captison she had both droids under control. She’d also programmed Threepio not to speak until she rescinded the command. Asking him to keep quiet on his own just hadn’t seemed kind—or plausible. “I’m sorry to have been delayed,” she said.
Captison wasn’t a large man, but like Luke, he radiated assurance. “I hope you were able to take care of your personal problem.”
“Yes, thank you.”
He extended his hands toward two repulsor chairs. Han pushed one toward her, then took the other one. Sideways. I love you, Nerf Herder, Leia silently repeated as she sat down on the gently bobbing seat. “I must make a formal apology for the deaths this morning. May I contact the families of the fighters who were killed?”
One corner of Captison’s mouth twitched up as he watched Han. “I think that would be appreciated. Yes, I’ll arrange it for you. There has also been a reconfiguration of Ssi-ruuvi ships outside our defense web,” Captison added. “The web reconfigured to compensate. So much I hear from Commander Thanas, at any rate.”
Leia caught Han’s sidelong glance. “Does he report to you and Governor Nereus?” Han asked.
Captison shrugged. “I’ve asked him to. Seems the least he could do.”
Leia puffed out a breath. “Maybe you don’t know how unusual it is for an Imperial officer to pay the slightest attention to the people he’s allegedly defending.”
“Really.”
Maybe Captison did know. Maybe he’d cultivated Commander Pter Thanas. “At any rate, here are the droids I offered. May we try translating whatever you have?”
“I’m not fond of droids,” Captison said drily. “But at this point I’m willing to use them, if there’s a chance they could help.”
She shot at Threepio with the Owner. It whirred softly.
As if he’d never been silenced, Threepio chimed in. “I am fluent in over six million forms of communication, sir.”
Leia had heard that sentence so many times she’d forgotten how impressive it was. Captison’s sudden interest reminded her. “That’s right, Your Highness said so over dinner.” He touched a panel on his desktop console. “Zilpha, key in those ship-to-ship recordings we picked up from the Fluties.” He leaned back in his chair and explained, “We’ve got plenty of their chatter. Sounds like a flock of birds—great big ugly ones, with deep voices.”
“Well, if anyone’s good at talking, it’s our Goldenrod.” Han rapped Threepio’s metal shoulder.
Threepio’s head whipped toward him. “Thank you, General Solo!”
A light changed color beside Captison’s elbow. “Here we go. Have your droid listen to this.”
“You can talk to him directly,” Leia put in. “His full designation is See-Three-Pee-Oh, and he answers to Threepio.”
“All right,” said Captison. “Listen, Threepio. Tell me what they’re saying.”
The console emitted a series of whistles, clicks, and grunts, some as high as an alto voice, and others eerily basslike. The “Flutie” played a very large instrument. As Leia listened, she stared around Captison’s office. His dual windows looked down on a round park scattered with stone figures. Bordering the clear window panels, tall leafy trees with straight trunks had been executed in three-dimensional colored glass. Namana trees, she guessed.
Threepio’s head cocked. He shook it. “I am sorry, Prime Minister, but I can make nothing of it. It is entirely outside my comprehension. I have been in service for many years, and I can communicate in every language ever used within Republican or Imperial space.”
“Our Fluties are from outside Republican and Imperial space,” Captison declared. “I believe that was mentioned.”
Han rubbed his chin. Leia couldn’t think what to say.
From behind her came a whistling echo. Startled, she spun around. Artoo stood his place in a wood-paneled corner, warbling what seemed to be a perfect imitation of Prime Minister Captison’s recording.
“Threepio,” she said when Artoo finished, “wasn’t that exactly how the Ssi-ruuk sounded?”
“No,” Threepio answered firmly. “He missed one note by a full four vibrations.”
Artoo honked.
“Soak your own transistors,” Threepio retorted. “I won’t stand for that language.”
Captison raised a white eyebrow. “It can duplicate them that closely?”
“I wouldn’t doubt Artoo, though it never occurred to me that he’d be able to do that,” Leia admitted. “Sir, I’m certain that given enough time and recordings, Threepio could make a solid effort at decoding that language.”
“If he can,” Captison said, pointing at the little blue-domed droid, “we’ve got a native speaker if we need one. Take your metal friends to my aide’s office. Zilpha will set them up with enough recordings to keep them busy well into tomorrow night.”
Governor Wilek Nereus bit the end off a namana twist and chewed thoughtfully. In this cool greenway lined with tall fern trees and passion-bud vines, he could momentarily ignore the menace surrounding Bakura and ponder his own career. With both Palpatine and Vader dead, the Rebel Alliance—downtalked so disdainfully on all official communiqués—became rather more of a threat.
Still, all odds favored the Empire, and he had two high Rebel leaders within striking distance. He could weaken the Alliance substantially.
He thrust the distraction aside. Strolling down the greenway, he returned to his original thought path. Someone new would undoubtedly spring onto the Imperial throne. Nereus would’ve cautiously evaluated the risk of attempting that leap himself, except that this far out on the Rim, he didn’t stand a chance … and anyone who jumped and
failed was ruined or dead. So he must watch for a new emperor to emerge, flatter and praise him, and meanwhile make Bakura a shining example of pacified, profitable enterprise.
If the Ssi-ruuk didn’t take it away. He despised them on principle, even without the entechment complication. As a youth, he’d pursued two hobbies: alien parasitology and alien dentition. The Empire had quietly used both talents. Aliens were creatures to dissect or fight—not to ally with.
His aide snapped to attention several paces away from the southeast greenway’s central fountain. Nereus had issued strict orders that he was not to be disturbed, and he let the messenger wait. He’d come here to enjoy a few minutes’ peace, and by all the forces and balances that those idiots worshiped, he was going to have it.
He took another fruity bite and stared into the fountain’s heart, measuring the pleasant glow the candy gave him. He controlled his namana habit: nectar in the evenings only, and only two candy breaks a day, usually here by the fountain. Water leaped from a hundred sonic motivators in gravity-defying swirls, finally captured by Bakura and pulled into the turbulent blue pool.
The Empire could weather turbulence too. Nereus’s Imperial colleagues had made the galactic bureaucracy self-perpetuating; and employed by the Empire, Wilek Nereus would rise farther, grasp more authority, and wield more power than in any other system of government. Therefore, he would sell anyone and anything to keep the Empire on Bakura. The loss of another Death Star peeved him. Fear was his ultimate tool for keeping Bakura subdued.
Well, the natives were afraid now. Sighing, he turned to the aide. “It’s important, I trust.”
“Sir.” The aide saluted. “You have a personal message waiting on holo from the Ssi-ruuvi fleet.”
The Fluties had captured several Imperial ships since sending the Sibwarra recording, so now they had access to Imperial holonet. “Idiot,” Nereus snapped, “why didn’t you speak up? I’ll take it at my desk.”
