Star Wars - The New Rebellion

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Han had had won-wons. They tasted like granite slugs, only slimier. At least won-wons smelled appetizing. He sat next to Chewie—

  —then leaped to his feet exclaiming in pain. His wound hurt even worse when he put weight on it.

  Blue laughed. She was carrying a plate of Exodeenian pasta. "Told you to put salve on that, Solo."

  "Funny, Blue."

  "There's an emergency med station over there." She nodded toward the left with her head. "You might want to buy some salve there."

  "I'm going to put it on myself," Han said.

  She smiled prettily. "I wouldn't suggest otherwise."

  Kid came over, carrying a cup of steaming Vayerbok. "What, no longer heart smuggling, Blue?"

  She shook her head. "No sport in it. Experience hasn't changed the man. He's still too good-hearted for me."

  "I would think a good heart is a valuable heart, Blue," Kid said.

  "Probably," Blue said. "But it's also the kind that gets all mushy and romantic. Still treat your wife to candlelight dinners, Solo?"

  "Of course," Han said. "The rewards are worth it." He winked, then sauntered to the med station.

  A battered medical droid worked the side. It perfunctorily examined Han's wound and said to the burly man behind the counter, "Blaster scorch."

  "I could have told him that," Han said.

  "No, you couldn't," the droid said. "You're a smuggler. It takes specialized knowledge to have a medical opinion."

  "I'm sure it does," Han said. "You weren't a protocol droid in a previous life, were you?"

  "Absolutely not," the droid said. "I'm an FX droid. I have never been nor do I want to be a protocol droid. It goes against my programming."

  "Obviously," Han said. He moved away from the medical droid and leaned against the counter.

  The burly man slapped a jar of salve on it. "Fifty credits."

  Han grinned. "You have to have a high demand for blaster salve here. I'll give you five credits."

  From under the counter, the burly man pulled out a blaster and aimed at Han's chest. "You want me to make the salve really necessary?"

  Han took a startled step backward. "I'll just pay you, how's that?"

  "Fifty credits for the prescription," the burly man said.

  "And fifty more for the diagnosis," the droid said.

  "Nope, no way," Han said. "I remember the blaster shot. I didn't need your expert opinion."

  The droid turned its silvery face toward the burly man. "It never works," the droid said, sotto voce.

  "Timing's off," the burly man said.

  Han frowned and yanked his salve off the counter. Then he ducked into the small booth beside the counter and applied the salve, nearly groaning with relief as the jelly relieved the burning.

  He came back out, half expecting the burly man to charge him for the use of the booth. But the man didn't.

  Han returned to his chair. Chewie was done with his won-wons, and the other smugglers had returned. Someone had picked at Han's mounder potato rice. He didn't care. He'd always hated the stuff.

  He sat—gingerly—and ate. The food was delicious, better than anything he'd had in a long time.

  Or maybe it was just the atmosphere, the humid cavern, the voices swearing at each other in a hundred different languages.

  "You said you were here on Jarril's invite," Kid said.

  Han shrugged. "He said there's money to be made."

  "The husband of a princess doesn't need money," Blue said.

  "He does if her kingdom was blown up."

  "That was seventeen years ago, Solo," Zeen said.

  "Was it?" Han said. "You apparently don't get news here."

  Wynni rumbled.

  "All right," Han said. "So you've heard about the bombing on Coruscant."

  "The Senate Hall isn't an entire kingdom," Kid said.

  "You gonna buy her a new one?" Zeen asked.

  "Like you bought Dathomir?" Blue said. She was grinning.

  "It worked, Blue."

  "Yeah, I heard how well it worked, Solo," she said.

  He shoved his plate aside. The meal had been good, but he was full.

  "So why are you here, Solo?" Zeen asked.

  Han glanced at Chewie. Chewie was sucking the remains of the won-won off one claw as if the conversation didn't concern him at all.

  "Jarril disappeared right after the bombing. In fact, he got out of Coruscant's shield at the last moment. That, and the things he said to me about easy money here, made me wonder if he knew more about the attack than he was saying."

  Seluss stood on a chair at the far end of the table and chittered angrily at Han. The Sullustan was shaking his blaster emphatically.

  Han put his hand on his own blaster. "I told you to take that weapon away from him," he said to Blue.

  "He knows better—"

  "Take it."

  "Han, he's got a point—"

  "Take it."

  Seluss chittered louder. With his free paw, Chewbacca slapped the blaster out of Seluss's hand. The blaster skidded across the floor and slammed into the medical droid. It screamed.

  Seluss jumped off the chair as if to go after the blaster. Han raised his weapon above table height. "I wouldn't do that, chubby cheeks," Han said. "Sit back down, slow and easy."

  "Han, he's just distraught," Blue said.

  "And my butt hurts," Han said. He hadn't taken his gaze off Seluss. "Sit down."

  Seluss did, looking like a chagrined child.

  "Now, in the course of this conversation, I may say things you don't like. You will listen like an adult, and refute what I have to say, like an adult." As he spoke, he realized he was using the same tone he took with the children when they'd been particularly wild. "If you don't like this agreement, if you plan to defend Jarril's honor with firepower only, tell me now so that I can shoot you and be done with it."

  "Han, he's an old friend," Blue said.

  "Yours, maybe. Not mine."

  Seluss stared at him, lips pursed.

  "I haven't trusted this twerp since he stole the blueprints for the Falcon."

  Seluss chirped indignantly.

  "I stand corrected," Han said. "Since the day Lando told me this twerp stole the blueprints for the Falcon. The details don't matter, pal. The fact remains that you're not honest."

  "None of us is," Blue said.

  Chewie roared.

  "Oh, please," Blue said. "Save it for someone who believes it, Chewie."

  "Leave him alone," Han said. He leaned forward. "I don't want Seluss shooting at me again. If you can't handle that, spice brain, I suggest you exit the conversation now."

  Seluss stood and started for the medical station.

  "Without the blaster," Han said.

  Seluss chittered at him, but left the cavern.

  "You didn't make him happy," Zeen said. "He could tell you more about Jarril than any of us."

  "Somehow I doubt that," Han said.

  Brakiss's last known address was on Msst. Msst was a small planet near the Rim Worlds that had once been a major Imperial stronghold. The Empire had theoretically abandoned the place after the truce at Bakura, but Luke knew for a fact that many Imperials still used Msst for rendezvous.

  But not recently.

  Luke landed unassisted in the milky-white mist that had given the planet its name. The new X-wing had superb guidance powers, but they didn't make up for the loss of R2.

  The landing strip on Msst was in one of the few areas where the constant milky whiteness burned off by midday. Although somehow it hadn't this midday. Luke hated to think that this might be what the records meant by "burned-off."

  The mist was pale, waist-high, and damp. The dampness sent a chill through him. Most of R2 would have been lost in the murk. This was where the new X-wings had their biggest failings. Luke flew well enough alone, but landing here, on a planet he had never seen before, without any companionship, seemed wrong. He felt oddly defensive, as if he had no one to watch his ba
ck. He hadn't realized how much he counted on R2 for the little things: wry observations, quick fixes, and companionship.

  Cole Fardreamer had better have the old X-wing in tip-top condition when Luke returned.

  A group of buildings rose out of the mist, tall and gray and steely. They had an Imperial seal on them, but time had worn the seal down, made it less ridged, which made it less threatening. The buildings looked abandoned, but he couldn't be certain.

  He half-hoped he would find Brakiss here, but he had no sense of the man. And by now, he would have. He would have known, through the Force, about the presence of someone else with such a natural talent.

  Luke thought often about Brakiss—at odd moments, really— and strangely, at times when he thought about Ben. Ben had had a wistfulness, a touch of regret, to him when he spoke of Darth Vader, as if Ben had a certain responsibility in losing Anakin Skywalker to the dark side of the Force.

  / don't want to lose you the way I lost Vader.

  Those words had reverberated for Luke as Brakiss ran to his ship, as he escaped Yavin 4, as he tried to flee himself.

  / was amazed how strongly the Force was with him. I took it upon myself to train him as a Jedi. I thought that I could instruct him as well as Yoda.

  I was wrong.

  The chill Luke felt echoed the frigid cold he had felt on Yavin 4 when all those voices were silenced. It mirrored the cold he had felt in the destroyed Senate Hall when he felt the taint of Brakiss's presence.

  Luke had tried to bring Brakiss into the Jedi way. He had tried to turn him away from the dark side, thinking that once Brakiss saw the good in himself, he would understand that being a Jedi was so much better.

  / was wrong.

  Instead, Brakiss had fled, and early reports showed he fled here, to the officers who had sent him to infiltrate the Jedi Academy. Luke hoped to find some trace of Brakiss on Msst. He had actually hoped that Brakiss had gone on to live a quiet life, much as Obi-Wan had in his years on Tatooine, guarding Luke Skywalker.

  But Luke got no sense of Brakiss at all.

  Although something on Msst could be dampening Luke's Force abilities, much as the ysalamiri did on Mrykr. But Luke had felt a physical effect from the ysalamiri, and he felt none here.

  None at all.

  Except the cold, damp mist.

  And that, in itself, was odd.

  His files on Msst had shown that the Empire had done its usual planetary abuse on Msst. They had ripped out essential plant life, made the natives work in the crystal swamps, and had a large colony of slave laborers constantly building buildings that were not needed. But he had no records of them destroying the local wildlife. Which meant that something else was keeping the wildlife at bay.

  And that something else had to be him. He touched his lightsaber, then glanced at the X-wing. Its upper-level wings were visible above the mist. It looked undisturbed.

  What he needed was the emergency kit. It had a fog light, and some rations. Those would carry him to the buildings. He turned-—

  —as large pink bubbles floated out of the mist in front of the wing. The bubbles had no faces. Long strands of floating pinkness descended from the base of the bubbles. The bubbles didn't seem to notice him. They bumped against his X-wing, like hands feeling in the darkness.

  Luke remained motionless. If they were sentient creatures, they would have some way of reacting to stimuli. The pink strands were a clue, as was the bubbles' bumping behavior. They probably responded to movement. If they responded to heat, they would have found him first, not the X-wing.

  But the X-wing hadn't moved in quite some time. Either they had been coming for it since it landed, or something else about it attracted them.

  Its energy stores?

  He couldn't tell. But he couldn't let them keep bumping it. The X-wing was his only way off the planet.

  He gripped his lightsaber tightly in his right hand and started toward the bubbles.

  With a large sucking sound, the mist around him disappeared. A bubble three times the size of the X-wing rose from the ground to hover over Luke, its pink strands stinging him, sending rivulets of pain through him. His body instinctively reacted, forcing him to his knees, his arms wrapped around his head.

  The attack was eerily quiet. Except for the disappearance of the mist, he had not heard a sound. Even when the little bubbles bumped against the X-wing.

  Each touch of the strands left his skin numb. This was not a solution. He kept his head protected, but shifted position so that he could peer through his arms. Above him floated the giant bubble. It appeared hollow inside.

  The strands continued to stab him, constant coordinated movements designed to numb him inch by painful inch.

  The edges of the bubble were jagged, and the strands came from the inside, like strings hanging from the inside of a tent. The jagged edges were—

  Teeth! They were teeth!

  The bubble stung its prey until it couldn't move, and then raised it into the hollow part of the bubble and chewed.

  Luke's lightsaber hummed on with a rush of power. He swung his arm upward, slicing off half a dozen strands. They fell around him like live wires, stinging him each place they touched.

  His muscles felt odd, as if he hadn't used them before. But he kept slashing, moving as quickly as his wounded body would let him.

  The bubble's only reaction was to sting him harder. Each touch of a living strand sent more pain into him. He jolted. His body was cold and burning at the same time. He could barely get his breath.

  But he concentrated all of his energy into his arm, into swinging the lightsaber. More strands fell around him, slapping the hard ground in the eerie quiet.

  The gaping mouth got closer. Its breath was chill and white— the source of the mist. It accented the cold he felt, made the numbness spread. It was all he could do to keep moving, keep fighting. His shoulder ached, his hand barely closed, and he had no feeling left in his neck and face. He could see the strands stinging him, but he could no longer feel them.

  What an odd way to die. Here, alone, no R2. No one even knowing—

  I feel cold, death. His own voice echoed in his mind, along with the memory of Yoda's.

  That place... is strong with the dark side of the Force.... Your weapons... you will not need them.

  And little Anakin's:

  We made the room hot.

  Luke envisioned all the heat within him flowing upward and out, into the center of the bubble creature. The creature started to float away, but Luke sent more warmth, and more.

  Then, with a great, ear-deafening pop, the creature exploded, followed by a dozen other pops as the little bubbles exploded as well.

  Pink globs rained around him, sizzling as they hit the ground. Some hit him, making the numbness complete. He tried to build a shield around himself with the Force, but it was too late.

  His body collapsed onto a pile of pink stuff. He watched, horrified, as the pink goo ate into his flight uniform, and headed for his precious, frozen skin.

  FIFTEEN

  Leia sprawled on the center of her bed, flimsies spread before her. She wore an old pair of fighting pants, and one of Han's shirts. Her hair was loose except for two braids in front to keep it from falling in her eyes.

  The bed, a large, soft mattress, piled high with pillows and blankets, was the safest place in their quarters. She and Han spent much time in the chamber, and she felt his presence strongly there. No one else came into the room without invitation, not even the children.

  Sometimes she felt as though it was the only place she could be herself.

  On this afternoon, she was there because it was the only place she could be completely alone and undisturbed. She also felt that she needed Han's presence, however superficially, while she studied the hard copies in front of her.

  The election results.

  From Gno's expression when he had called that morning to let her know they had arrived, she had known the news was bad. She had asked for hard
copies, and then retreated to her rooms. If she had remained in her office, she would have been bombarded by well-wishers, worriers, and gloaters. She needed time to process the information on her own.

  The elections had been held quickly, just as she had planned. A few places complained that they didn't even have enough time to mobilize the electorate (Exactly what we want, Gno had said), and others requested permission to grieve for the lost senators before replacing them. That request was denied. The swifter the business of government moved, the better. Sometimes even funerals were places for politicking of the kind that Leia and her supporters had hoped to avoid.

  Leia's hands shook as she sorted through the information before her. She checked the planets represented by critically injured senators first. Most had decided to follow the senators' wishes and allow them to vote by proxy. Those places that hadn't, where it was uncertain whether or not the senators would be able to function in public again, voted in politicians whose records seemed, at least on the surface, to mirror those of the officials they were replacing.

  The trouble rested in the hundred other planets whose senators had died. Despite the haste, despite the precautions, only fifteen percent elected someone with the same political cast. On all the rest, former Imperials were voted into office.

  Thanks to the bombing, former Imperials held a simple majority in the Senate.

  Enough to defeat any proposal that required a voice vote, but not enough to win in each instance.

  Just because these people had lived within the Empire didn't mean they would all vote the same.

  Or at least, she hoped they wouldn't.

  But if they did, she would have to fight for each and every important vote. The Senate had become a political body now, not a place of colleagues.

  That night, she would have to respond to the results, and do so in her most diplomatic manner. She couldn't alienate the new representatives by assuming they would oppose her, and she had to reassure her own supporters at the same time.