Abyss

by Troy Denning

  “Relax,” Jaina said. “We have permission.”

  “Permission?” Weeze turned his head to regard Jaina out of one eye. “What kind of permission?”

  “You haven’t shown him the document, Jedi Solo?” Saba asked, feigning surprise. “Why do you wait?”

  Jaina glanced back through the door and—behind Kyp, cilghal, and the other Masters—saw Corran and Mirax Horn ascending the escalator with a sizable mob of newsbeings with holocams shouting questions at them. Javis Tyrr, of course, was in the lead, his fashionable tabard badly wrinkled where he had been grabbed and—no doubt—shoved away. A puffy cheek and darkening bruise suggested that it had been done with relish, and Jaina began to have doubts about Master Horn’s ability to control himself once they reached Valin and Jysella.

  Jaina turned back to Saba and dipped her head in mock apology. “I’m sorry, Master Sebatyne. It took a few minutes to confirm that this is the correct place.”

  Confident that the Rodians would not try anything foolish with so many Masters in the room, Jaina released them from the wall, then withdrew the writ tube from inside her robe. By then, the Horns were entering the lobby, with Javis Tyrr and another half a dozen news teams pushing through the doors behind him.

  Jaina waited while Kyp and Cilghal used the Force to subtly arrange the crowd. Once she was sure that all the holocams would have a clear view of the security counter, she stepped forward and presented the tube, turning it so the Justice Center seal was in plain sight.

  “Sergeant Weeze,” she said, “this is a legal writ granting us visitation rights for Valin and Jysella Horn, who, as you can see by the accompanying incarceration order, are being held at a secret Galactic Alliance Security detention center located at this address.”

  Weeze made no move to accept the tube, staring at it as though Jaina were trying to hand him an armed thermal detonator.

  “I … I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Rodian said. “This is just a storage facil—”

  The Rodian’s denial came to an abrupt end as the sizzle of deactivating access shields sounded from the turbolifts at the back of the lobby. Sharp voices began to shout contradictory orders to “get down” and “don’t move.” Everyone turned toward the sounds—just in time to see a GAS assault squad charging into the lobby in full armor, stun grenades in hand and repeating blasters ready to shoulder.

  Of course, the news teams immediately activated their cam lights, and only a few quick Force nudges from Jaina and her fellow Jedi sent the flurry of bolts that followed into the ceiling instead of into the crowd of journalists. The beings carrying the larger holocams merely dropped to a knee and continued filming as the rest of the confused assault squad poured out of the turbolifts and took up positions at the far end of the lobby.

  The firing quickly died away as the assault squad realized they were being filmed instead of attacked, but by then the news teams had a full four or five seconds of GAS confusion for the evening broadcast. Things were going even better than Jaina had hoped—and they quickly improved when the familiar square-shouldered figure of the assault squad commander stepped out of the turbolift.

  “Bloah!” Jaina started toward the lift. “If it isn’t Captain Atari!”

  She called the name out especially loudly, to be sure that Javis Tyrr and every other newsbeing caught it on their audio. If the plan kept going this well, she might even risk revealing that this whole trap had been Jag’s idea. That probably wouldn’t do much to buy him—or her—any slack with her parents, but it just might make the Masters view their situation a little more sympathetically.

  Atar quickly motioned his troopers to lower their weapons, then came three meters forward and stood scowling out from beneath his bushy mustache. Jaina was glad to see that both he and his team were in full GAS uniform.

  Jaina stopped half a pace away, then—once she felt the cam lights warming her flanks—said, “Captain Atar, I wish I could say what a pleasure it is to see you again.” She held out the writ tube. “Perhaps you would be good enough to accept this. Your subordinates seem to be rather confused about who they’re working for.”

  This drew a round of snickers from the reporters, and Atar’s attitude grew wary and bitter. He had been ambushed inside his own nest, and he knew it. He accepted the tube without comment, then removed the writ and read it in silence.

  When he came to the authorizing signature, his eyes grew wide and his face turned red. He lowered the flimsi and studied Jaina with a raised brow.

  “You want to visit Valin and Jysella Horn?”

  “That’s right,” Jaina said.

  “But they’re frozen,” he said, “in carbonite.”

  “We’re aware of that,” Cilghal said, stepping to Jaina’s side. “That order gives me the right to inspect their frigidation pods and make certain everything is in good order.”

  “And affirms the right of Valin and Jysella Horn to receive visitors while being held in detention,” Kyp added, motioning Corran and Mirax forward. “Just like any other prisoner.”

  “As you can see.” Jaina glanced back, addressing the cams directly. “We’ve taken pains to acquire all the necessary permissions.”

  Atar nodded. “So you have.” He rerolled the flimsi carefully, no doubt trying to buy himself time to think, and returned it to the tube. “I’m sure the facility director will be happy to make an appointment—”

  “No, Captain.” Jaina stepped closer to Atar, craning her neck to look up at him—and using the Force to nudge him back. “That order gives us immediate access.”

  “So we can be sure that GAS is maintaining the pods properly, and as a matter of routine,” Cilghal added, also starting forward. “If you think we are going to give you a chance to make repairs and forge maintenance records, you are quite mistaken.”

  Jaina nudged him back another step, but Atar centered himself in front of the turbolifts. “I’m sorry.” He motioned the rest of his squad to their feet. “But I don’t have the authority to grant you entry to this facility.”

  Saba slipped forward to stand snout-to-nose with him. “Look again, Captain. You have no authority to stop us.”

  The Barabel snatched the tube from his hand, then poked him in the chest with it. Atar’s eyes bulged with rage, but before he could respond, Javis Tyrr shoved forward to push a microphone into his face.

  “Captain Atar,” the reporter demanded, “is it your position that Galactic Alliance Security is not bound by Judicial Center writs?”

  “No, of course not.” Atar had barely spoken before the rest of the press began to shout questions, and his face reddened as he realized how his meaning was being misconstrued. He raised his hands for silence, and when that didn’t work he shouted, “I mean, the security services are absolutely bound by the law, just like anyone else in the Galactic Alliance.”

  “This one is glad to hear that,” Saba said. She handed the tube back to Jaina, then started toward the turbolifts. “We will start our search in the sublevelz and work up.”

  Atar’s red face suddenly grew pale, and he rushed after her. “There’s no need to search, Master Sebatyne. I’ll escort you myself.”

  Saba stopped at the entrance to the turbolift and turned. “How nice, Captain.” She turned to the cams, which were already pressing in close behind her, then asked, “What are the cell numberz?”

  Atar shook his head. “I’m sorry, Master Sebatyne. We’ll be going to—”

  “The infirmary, perhapz?” Saba stooped down to peer at the turbo-lift control panel. “Is this it? Level four ninety-eight?”

  She extended a talon toward the number pad, but Atar’s hand shot out to enter a different level instead. Saba studied the number, then turned to the captain, her face scales flattened in the Barabel equivalent of a frown.

  “Four seventy?” She turned and added the level designation for the benefit of her companions and the reporters. “The executive officez?”

  Atar dropped his gaze, and Jaina knew.
GAS was treating the Horn siblings like some sort of prize, putting them on display—just as Jabba the Hutt had put her own father on display four decades earlier. And she could feel by the rising tide of fury in the Force that the Masters realized it, too.

  An instant later Atar tried to cover. “We, uh, need to pick up some visitor passes.”

  Saba fixed him with a cold reptilian glare. “This one doubtz that very much.”

  She stepped into the turbolift and vanished up the tube.

  Atar cursed under his breath, then turned to a young Bothan with a lieutenant’s patch on her collar. “The Horns and the Jedi can follow, Rasher. No one else.”

  The lieutenant—the name above her pocket read KE’E, RASHER—came to attention. “Yes, sir.”

  “Set the turbolift level yourself,” he said. “And check them for weapons first.”

  Again the lieutenant saluted, but by this time Atar was already going after Saba. Cilghal immediately moved forward to the turbolift and entered the level number herself.

  “Hold on, Master,” Ke’e said, moving to block her way. “You heard the captain. I need to check you for weapons.”

  “I assure you, that’s not necessary.” Cilghal waved a finger, and the lieutenant slid out of her way. “I didn’t bring any.”

  She stepped into the turbolift and rose out of sight, leaving the Bothan sputtering in anger. Jaina glanced back and saw Kyp standing behind the reporters with the Horns, waiting to bring them forward. She caught Corran Horn’s eye, then raised a questioning brow and tipped her head toward the turbolift. This next part was going to be harder on him and Mirax than anyone had expected, and the decision to put them through it in the middle of a media frenzy was not hers to make.

  Corran acknowledged her question by turning to his wife, whose impish face was already creased in outrage and grief. She answered with a curt, narrow-eyed nod that told Jaina all she needed to know about the Horns’ state of mind. They knew how much this was going to hurt, and they were willing to bear it and stick to the plan.

  Jaina turned back to find Ke’e pointing her subordinates toward the turbolifts, growling at them to stop standing around and secure the lobby. Jaina stepped forward to take possession of the entrances. The troopers immediately trained their weapons on her and began shouting orders for her to stand down.

  Jaina calmly turned to Javis Tyrr, using the Force to make herself heard above the GAS troopers. “Don’t you want to go up and see what Daala is trying to hide?”

  Tyrr’s narrow eyes lit with something akin to greed, but quickly turned fearful as they swung toward Lieutenant Ke’e.

  “Stay where you are, Tyrr,” the Bothan ordered. “The news media isn’t permitted to—”

  “What are you going to do, Lieutenant?” Jaina demanded. “Blast them on a live holofeed?”

  With that, she turned and used the Force to slide a couple of troopers out of Tyrr’s path. He continued to hesitate—but only until the rest of the cam teams began to push forward. Tyrr and his stocky assistant began to fling elbows and shout that the invitation had been extended to them, and reporters began to vanish up the turbolifts.

  Lieutenant Ke’e waved her subordinates off, then pushed her way over to stand muzzle-to-nose with Jaina. “You are going to regret that, Jedi. We have a long reach.”

  “Lieutenant Ke’e, I have been threatened by assassin droids, Yuu-zhan Vong Warmasters, and Sith Lords.” Jaina watched as Kyp and the Horns followed the last of the reporters into the turbolift, then added, “Them, I worried about.”

  With that, Jaina turned her back on the Bothan and entered the turbolift. She rose three levels to the executive offices, then stepped out into an expansive lobby area with a vaulted ceiling and high stone walls. The spacious sitting area featured three nerf-hide couches arranged before a long, built-in aquarium filled with exotic water species from Pavo Prime.

  But the aquarium was not the focal point. Hanging two meters above the tank were a pair of black slabs, each about two meters tall and perhaps a meter and a half wide. Along the bottom blinked a row of control lights, but otherwise they resembled a black, glossy bas-relief sculpture of Valin and Jysella Horn. In the bright illumination of so many lights, it was possible to see every detail of the young Jedi Knights’ faces—the eyes bulging in terror, the nostrils flaring with panic, the mouths frozen in mid-scream.

  Directly below the carbonite pods stood the Horns, their necks craned back and their mouths hanging agape as they looked up at their frozen children. Jaina’s stomach instantly went cold and heavy as she struggled with her own feelings—the guilt of being the one who had suggested using the Horns so cynically, the outrage of discovering the extent of the indignity being visited on their children …who were, after all, her fellow Jedi Knights.

  The reporters must have been as shocked as Jaina and the other Jedi, for they maintained a respectful distance behind the couches. The only sound from them was the faint hum of their equipment and a few whispered cam instructions. For a moment, Jaina thought the GAS officers were going to disappoint her and allow the confrontation to end on that sad note, with the Horns watching while Cilghal inspected the carbonite pods to make sure Valin and Jysella were being properly cared for in custody.

  Then a long, spine-chilling wail rose from somewhere inside Mirax, and she turned to bury her head in Corran’s robes. He clutched her to his chest, his eyes growing wet and furious as he stared up at the carbonite slabs. The reporters began to shout questions, though they probably knew better than to expect answers, and a hulking Yaka in a GAS colonel’s uniform came tramping out of the corner office. Escorted by half a dozen armed guards and twice as many scowling captains, he was almost certainly the facility commander.

  The Yaka marched into the seating area without so much as looking at the reporters and went straight to Saba. Even taller and broader than she was, he had a face that was less brutish only by virtue of being covered in flesh rather than scales.

  “Are you the Jedi responsible for this intrusion, Shorttail?” he demanded.

  It was an exceptionally insulting way to address a Barabel. In other circumstances, it would probably have resulted in the Yaka having one of his massive arms slashed off at the elbow, so it could be used to beat him about the head. But ferocious as Saba was, she was also a Jedi Master, and that meant that she knew better than to let herself be baited into making a foolish attack on live HoloNet.

  She merely regarded the Yaka for a moment, then rasped, “Who askz?”

  “Colonel Retk,” the Yaka answered.

  The shadow of a smile flitted across his face, and Jaina knew that Retk was doing exactly what she had suspected: trying to turn a public relations disaster into a victory by provoking a rash attack from a Jedi Master. Despite their brutish appearance, Yakas were among the most intelligent and cunning beings in the galaxy—an attribute of the cyborg brains with which most were implanted at a young age.

  “Colonel Wruq Retk,” the Yaka continued, extending his hand toward Saba. “Commander of this facility.”

  “Ah.” Instead of shaking Retk’s extended hand, Saba slapped the writ tube into it. “Then you wish to see—”

  Before Saba could say this, Mirax Horn pushed between her and Retk.

  “If you’re the commander of this toxiden,” she said, tipping her head back to look him in the face, “then you must be the son-of-a-schutta who decided to use my children as decorations.”

  “Please, it’s not meant to insult them.” A twinkle of amusement came to Retk’s eye, and he turned to face the cams. “I just wanted to put them where I could see to their maintenance personally.”

  “The kriff you did.”

  Mirax’s hand came up so fast that even Jaina did not see it. Retk’s teeth simply clacked shut, then his head snapped back and he toppled onto the couch behind him. Like everyone else in the room, his bodyguards were so stunned that they did not react instantly, and that gave Jaina and the other Jedi the half second they needed
to reach out in the Force and push the guards’ blaster barrels down toward the floor.

  Finally, the troopers shook off their confusion and stepped forward, reaching for Mirax with their free hands and ordering her to surrender. Of course Saba, Cilghal, Kyp, and Corran reacted even more quickly, placing themselves between them and Mirax.

  Jaina noticed a hawk-nosed GAS captain eyeing the writ tube, which now lay on the couch next to the unconscious Yaka. She began to have visions of her plan backfiring severely. Without the document itself, there was every chance that the judge who had issued it would deny having done so, and then Daala would have an opening to present the visit as just one more example of Jedi high-handedness.

  Taking advantage of the confusion around him, the hawk-nosed captain reached over to retrieve the tube—and nearly fell as Jaina extended a hand and used the Force to jerk it away. The captain looked up in astonishment, then merely spread his hands and shrugged, obviously no more concerned about subverting the law than any common street thief.

  By the time Jaina had the writ tube safely back in her grasp, the situation had resolved itself into a standoff. Another GAS captain was demanding that Mirax surrender to face charges for assaulting a security officer. Meanwhile, Corran and the other Masters were standing in a silent guard around her. Mirax’s small form was too well hidden to see her expression, but her Force aura suggested that she was glad she had knocked the big Yaka unconscious.

  Jaina groaned inwardly. The plan had been to generate some public sympathy by putting a human face on the Jedi Knights whom Daala had frozen in carbonite. But now the lead story on the evening news was going to be about yet another standoff between the Jedi and GAS, this time in GAS’s own detention facility. And Jaina had only herself to blame. She had known she would be asking a lot for the Horns to keep their heads when they saw their children in carbonite.

  As the thought worked its way through Jaina’s mind, she saw again Mirax’s small figure craning her neck to look up at the Yaka, and she knew how to save the situation. Leaving Saba and the others to keep the GAS guards at bay, she turned toward the busily humming cams and sought out Javis Tyrr’s tall, tawny-haired figure.