The Old Republic Series

by Sean Williams

  “All right, then,” she said. “Wait until you can see the red of their eyes.”

  Her opposite number among the security team was saying much the same thing, judging by the sudden tightening of their ranks. One enormous Weequay raised his right hand to give the signal to attack.

  At that moment, Larin’s comlink buzzed.

  She froze, unable to fire and answer at the same time. What was more important: the last shots she might ever fire in her life, or the last communication she might ever receive?

  The Weequay had frozen, too. A blue-skinned Twi’lek had appeared at the far end of the room, waving and shouting something in a language she couldn’t understand.

  “Can you follow that?” she asked Jet.

  He shook his head. “Sounds important, though, whatever it is.”

  No one was coming for them at that moment, so she took the opportunity to put her rifle aside and reach for the comlink.

  “Larin, it’s me,” said Shigar. “Where are you?”

  “Right where you left me. Tell me you’ve got a flip card up your sleeve.”

  “I might just have. Has Tassaa Bareesh sent anyone to you yet?”

  She peered out at the masses of security guards. “You could say that.”

  “Go wherever they take you. I know what she has in mind.”

  “You want me to surrender?”

  “It won’t be surrender. We, ah, reached an agreement, she and I.”

  Larin didn’t like that moment of hesitation. What if he was under duress and walking her into a trap?

  She asked him, “Do you remember lightning season on Kiffu, when the static trees take to the air?”

  “What—? Yes, I do. Spark-dragons lure them into caves to steal their charge. I’m not setting you up, Larin. You can rest easy on that score.”

  “All right,” she said, keeping a close eye on the leading Weequay. He was yelling at the Twi’lek and brandishing his massive fists. “You’ll be where they take us?”

  “Count on it.”

  She put down the comlink and turned to Jet. He had heard everything.

  “I will admit,” he said, “that I prefer resolutions that involve talking rather than shooting.”

  “So you think we should do this?”

  “I do. And Clunker agrees.”

  The droid looked as though he was fully prepared to shoot his way out, but nodded stiffly.

  “Hetchkee! Put down your rifle. When I say so, we’re coming out.”

  “Uh, yes, sir.”

  “Wait for the signal. If we get the timing right, I think we’ve got a good chance of surviving this with a little class.”

  The Weequay shook his hands overhead one last time, then let them fall to his sides. The Twi’lek looked satisfied. The Weequay turned to his troops and grunted a series of commands.

  The security detail rose to its feet one at a time, and lowered their weapons.

  “Right,” said Larin. “That’s our cue. Put down your blasters, but keep your hands at your sides. We’re not surrendering.”

  She stepped first out of the vault, and the Twi’lek came to meet her.

  “I am Sagrillo,” he said with a short bow. “By the order of Tassaa Bareesh, you are free to go.”

  Larin kept her relief completely hidden. “You better believe it.”

  “And me?” asked Jet hopefully.

  “Alas, Captain Nebula, my mistress still has need of your services.” The Twi’lek bowed again. “If you will accompany me, please, all of you, I will take you where you are required to be.”

  Larin fell in behind the Twi’lek, with Jet beside him. Clunker and Hetchkee brought up the rear. The only sound was a subterranean growling from the Weequay as the security detail parted before them. Larin considered tipping him a salute farewell, but thought better of it.

  She glanced at Jet. Apart from the slow clenching and unclenching of his jaw muscles, he showed no emotion at all.

  ULA SAT IN ENCAASA Bareesh’s office and tried not to weep. He should never have come to Hutta. He should have argued with Supreme Commander Stantorrs and made him send someone else. It didn’t matter how it would have looked. He would happily take a greatly diminished position of responsibility in the Republic’s military administration rather than endure another minute in this slovenly disaster area.

  From the moment he heard the name of the accursed Cinzia, everything had gone wrong. First he had been kidnapped and interrogated. Then he had been caught in the crossfire among a Sith, a Jedi, and a Mandalorian. Then the brutal hexes had almost killed him. And now …

  He put his head in his hands, barely able to think of it.

  From outside the office came the sound of constant commotion. The destruction of the Republic shuttle had damaged the palace’s spaceport. Fire and repair crews ran backward and forward, shouting at one another and into comlinks, requesting reinforcements. Ula didn’t offer to help. The palace could burn to the ground with everyone in it for all he cared.

  The chances of Larin Moxla still being alive were slim indeed. Of that he was completely certain.

  He wasn’t proud of himself for running from the ruins of the security air lock, even though he had been sure at the time that his motives were pure. His performance as a Republic envoy had never been convincing; Jet had seen through him straightaway, even if he hadn’t outright named him an Imperial spy. Better to let that life disappear and start a new one in the Empire, where he could spend less time worrying about who other people thought he was and more on actually doing the right thing.

  Getting through the spaceport guards hadn’t been hard, even after the unexpected departure of Dao Stryver’s scout ship. They remembered him from his arrival and let him through. He had approached the Imperial dock without hesitation, confident that the guards would allow him admittance.

  It hadn’t gone that way at all.

  The shame of it still burned. His fellow Imperials—of a junior rank, what’s more—had turned him away, recognizing him as belonging to a near-human species rather than pure-blooded like themselves. Epicanthix scum, they had called him. You belong in this hole, they told him. Go away before we shoot you dead.

  He had staggered out of the spaceport, stunned by the sudden reversal. If his own kind wouldn’t take him in, who would? Barely able to think straight, he had wandered in circles around the neighborhood for what had felt like days, but couldn’t have been any more than an hour. His choices were limited. He could either go back to the Republic and his old job under Supreme Commander Stantorrs—if he wasn’t sacked for failing so miserably in his mission—or do as the Imperial guards had suggested and stay on Hutta. The latter he simply would not do.

  When he returned to the spaceport, determined to take his leave of the planet forever, he learned that the Republic shuttle had been destroyed. Bad enough that his fellow Imperials had rejected him; now they had destroyed his only means of getting offworld! He had been so wrapped up in his misery he hadn’t even heard the explosion, and he bore the news that things had gone from bad to worse with a distressing lack of grace.

  Luckily, the situation wasn’t without hope. The Imperials’ blatant breaking of the Treaty of Coruscant might, on more civilized worlds, have resulted in all-out war, but on Hutta it was likely to be ignored along with the many other infringements perpetrated by the Sith and the Jedi that day. Furthermore, Ula’s status as a Republic envoy still carried some weight. Tassaa Bareesh’s nephew had installed Ula in his fetid office—a place of leathery drapes and entirely too much velvet, with living things crawling all over the desk—and left him there to sort himself out while the spaceport dealt with much more important emergencies. Ula couldn’t blame him.

  The only person Ula blamed was himself. If he hadn’t run away like a coward, he might have been able to make a difference to the mission’s outcome. Larin was very capable, but she was also wounded. And now with Stryver and the Sith gone, one of them presumably with the navicomp, and the guards outside babb
ling about the Jedi someone had captured, Tassaa Bareesh was unlikely to show anyone involved the slightest clemency. He himself expected a wrathful backlash. All of Hutt space would quiver until she found a way to mitigate her losses.

  A swarthy Weequay burst into the office. He didn’t knock. His face was melted into a permanent sneer.

  “Up,” he said, poking Ula with his force pike.

  Ula’s stomach sank. Here it came, the moment he had been dreading. How would Tassaa Bareesh deal with him? If he was lucky, it would be quick. If he got what he deserved, it would be exceedingly slow.

  The Weequay poked him again, and he rose wearily to his feet. Several tiny lizards fell squeaking from his back and crawled off under the couch-bed. At least, he thought, he would be leaving this ghastly menagerie behind.

  He was led out into the spaceport, where Encaasa Bareesh and a clutch of Gamorreans were waiting, ceremonial axes at the ready. In their midst was a dirty, beaten man whom Ula didn’t immediately recognize. A crude bandage stanched the flow of blood from a wound on his left arm. A dozen other small cuts and grazes had been left unattended.

  “Envoy Vii, I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced,” the young man formally said. “I’m Shigar Konshi, Jedi Padawan under Grand Master Satele Shan.”

  Ula was so surprised by the unexpected deference that it was difficult to respond in kind.

  “I thought you’d been captured.”

  “I was.”

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “I’m waiting for—” He glanced over Ula’s shoulder. “Yes, here they come now.”

  Ula turned and took in the scene behind him. If he’d been surprised into rudeness before, he was utterly speechless now.

  Larin Moxla led a procession of a Weequay, a Twi’lek, Jet Nebula and his droid, and one of Potannin’s surviving guards. They weren’t being shoved along; they weren’t in binders. Like Shigar, they were being treated more like guests than prisoners.

  “Nice to see you again, mate,” said Jet, tossing him a casual salute. “If you’re the one who talked us out of that mess, I owe you a dozen Reactor Cores.”

  “Not me.” Ula turned helplessly to Shigar for an explanation.

  “I cut a deal,” the Padawan said to all of them, although his eyes kept returning to Larin. “Tassaa Bareesh is letting us go.”

  “That’s suspiciously generous of her,” she said.

  “Yes, well, there’s a catch.” Shigar pulled an unhappy face. “I’ll tell you when we’re on our way.”

  “You have a lift, too?” asked Ula, hope beginning to bloom.

  “Better than that,” Shigar said. “I have a ship and a captain.”

  “Anyone we know?” asked Jet hopefully.

  The Twi’lek addressed Jet in clipped, officious terms. “The great Tassaa Bareesh has instructed her nephew to release your vessel, but your contract with our employer remains in force. You will provide passage for the Jedi and his companions to destinations of their choosing. You will not cut and run the moment you leave our airspace. You will return with the information gathered and provide said information in full. Any fiduciary losses incurred during this expedition will be your responsibility.”

  “What about the profits?”

  “They will be distributed the normal way.”

  Jet grimaced. Ula guessed that “the normal way” meant all for Tassaa Bareesh and none for anyone else.

  “It’s not much of a deal,” Jet said, “and, well, call me a stickler for details if you like, but I don’t remember there ever being a contract between us.”

  The Twi’lek smiled. “There is now.”

  “I guess that’s the catch,” said Larin.

  “Well,” said Jet, “at least we’re alive and soon to be in motion. There’s nothing that can’t be solved, I’ve found, with the application of a little velocity.”

  He winked at Ula, who was still too shocked by the sudden turn of events to manage a natural expression.

  “Where are we going, exactly?” he asked the assembled group.

  “After Stryver,” said Shigar. “And the longer we stand around here, the bigger the lead he’ll have.”

  He bowed to Tassaa Bareesh’s nephew, who grunted something in reply. The Weequay and Gamorreans dispersed, marching with heavy tread off to pursue more important tasks. When the spaceport doors opened to allow them admittance, Jet took the fore, whistling jauntily as he led them to his berth.

  “Don’t expect much,” he said. “The Auriga Fire is a loyal old thing but has seen better days. Like you, eh, old buddy?” He clapped Clunker on the shoulder, prompting a rattling noise that disappeared down the inside of the droid’s left leg. “It’ll get you from A to B, but I can’t speak to anything much else.”

  He stopped at the disembarkation ramp, where a series of carrybags had been lined up. “Hello,” he said. “Who might these belong to?”

  “I think they’re mine,” said Ula. His quarters had obviously been emptied while he had wallowed in self-pity in Encaasa Bareesh’s office.

  “So you’re joining us, Envoy Vii?” Jet asked with a knowing gleam in his eye.

  “Yes,” he said. “If—ah, if that’s not inconvenient.”

  “I can’t guarantee that you’ll get back to Coruscant anytime soon.”

  “That’s okay. I would very much like to leave here, immediately.”

  “Right you are.”

  Jet keyed an elaborate code into his berth, then another into his ship’s air lock. The hull was pitted and scarred with dozens of micrometeorite strikes. Ula fretted about the state of the ship’s particle fields, but supposed that if Jet had survived this long, they couldn’t be that bad.

  The air lock slid open.

  Jet waved him up the ingress ramp. “After you, then. Mind the step. Crew quarters to your right. Guess that’s what you qualify as now. Someone’s got to help me fly this thing straight.”

  Ula grabbed a carrybag as he went by. His sole remaining escort did the same. The ramp creaked and swayed. He wrinkled his nose at the stink emanating from the ship’s interior. It smelled like stale Rodian. The Auriga Fire would undoubtedly be a far cry from the official transport he had enjoyed on the way to Hutta.

  Still, he didn’t care. Utter disaster had somehow been avoided, and for that he was grateful. He was alive, and so was Larin; he had clean clothes and transport; there was even a chance he might be able to return with information for his masters on Dromund Kaas. When he thought back to the despair he had been feeling just minutes ago, his present circumstances seemed positively optimistic.

  “Stang!”

  Jet’s warning forgotten, Ula stubbed his toe on the top of the ramp.

  THE AURIGA FIRE was by no means a luxury vessel. From above, the stocky freighter was almost perfectly triangular, with hyperdrives at the base; sensor arrays, shield generators, and comms at the upper point; and a cockpit slightly off-center in the middle, above the main holds. Its low, cramped corridors were arranged in a rough Y, with main hold, crew quarters for five, and a cramped engineering bay at the termini. The cockpit was one level up, accessed by a ladder. Additional holds filled every available piece of ship space, including some, Ula was sure, that weren’t visible to the naked eye. Jet claimed to have had a crew of ten on the run that had encountered the Cinzia. Ula wondered how they had all fit in.

  The ship was hardly understocked in terms of equipment. On the short journey back from the refresher, Ula spotted a tractor beam, a crude interdiction device, and power supplies for no less than four tri-laser cannons. Thick cables suggested that the shields were well supplied with power, too. Jet might talk down its capabilities, Ula decided, but the ship could undoubtedly hold its own.

  There was just enough room for everyone in the cockpit. Shigar had the copilot’s seat. Larin had clocked more flight hours, but until her hand was properly treated she was relegated to astrometrics. Clunker had patched himself in to the ship’s flight-control systems and
shut down his photoreceptors. That left Ula and Hetchkee to ride out the short hop to orbit in the passenger seats.

  As the brown atmosphere faded away to stars, Ula instantly felt lighter, both physically and in spirit. Jet deftly guided the ship into a stable parking orbit and put it on autopilot. Then he swiveled in his seat and folded his hands behind his head.

  “Now for the ten-trillion-credit question,” he said. “Where to?”

  Everyone looked at Shigar, who shifted awkwardly in his seat.

  “Easier asked than answered, I’m afraid,” he said. “Tassaa Bareesh thinks we’re going after Stryver, so I guess that’s what we have to do.”

  “Why don’t we just run?” Ula asked.

  “I can’t,” said Jet.

  “Because of a made-up contract?”

  “Because she’ll hunt me down and nail me to her wall if I do. She’s planted a homing beacon somewhere on this old bucket. I’m sure of it. That’s what I’d do in her shoes.”

  “So we go looking for Stryver,” said Larin. “He’ll head for the hexes’ home, for sure.”

  “If we had the navicomp,” said Shigar, “we’d do the same.”

  “He has to crack the cipher first,” said Jet. “We had a go or two at it on the way to Hutta, without any luck.”

  “Is there any other data we haven’t been given? For instance, when you interdicted the Cinzia, could you tell from its trajectory where it originated?”

  Jet shook his head. “We tried that, too. Project the ship’s route back, and you get empty space to the edge of the galaxy, and then a lot more empty space after that. Same with everything else we picked up. It all points nowhere.”

  “They were smart,” said Larin. “And they really wanted to stay hidden. I wonder why.”

  They pondered that question for a moment, in silence. Ula had no insight to offer into the psychology of Lema Xandret. The hexes were remarkable and strange, but that alone didn’t reveal anything about the people who had made them.