by Greg Keyes
“Well, we have to stop them!” Leia said.
“What?” Jacen asked. “Why? They haven’t attacked us. They don’t even see us.”
“True enough,” Han said. “Gives us a nice advantage.”
“But—I thought this mission was about setting up networks for refugees and intelligence. No one said anything about taking the fight to the enemy.”
“Hey, Jacen,” Han said, “it’s not as if we’re going out of our way to harass collaborationist shipping, though why the thought of doing so should upset you I can’t imagine. But there they are, and here we are—”
“Can we just disable them?” Jacen asked.
“Jacen,” Han said, turning to face him, his eyebrows lifting. “Jacen, in case you didn’t notice, there’s a war on. Now, I know you’ve gotten all mystical on me lately, and I’m trying to be understanding, but if you expect the rest of us to go along with your philosophy of the day, think again. You stick with the Force and let me deal with this. Anyway, for all you know that freighter could be full of slaves and sacrifices. You really want to leave them to the mercy of the Vong?”
“I don’t feel anything like that in the Force,” Jacen said firmly.
“Jacen,” Leia chimed in. “You know I respect what you’re trying to do, but you have to understand something—”
“I understand,” Jacen interrupted. “I understand that you told me this mission was about something I could get on board with, and now in the middle of the flight you’re changing the coordinates. I’m not trying to tell you what to believe. But when you brought me along on this trip—”
“When I brought you along on this trip,” Han roared, “I never said you could be captain, and I didn’t tell you this is a democracy. Jacen, I love you. But sit down, shut up, and do as you’re told.”
Jacen was so stunned by his father’s anger that it did not, at that moment, even occur to him to continue the argument.
“Great,” Han said. “So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to take out that Yuuzhan Vong escort, and then we’re going to make the freighter an offer.”
“Offer?” Leia said.
“Yep. We’ll offer not to blow her open if she surrenders quietly.” He checked his panel. “Power in five minutes. Jacen, get down to the turbolaser.”
Jacen hesitated, a painful, sickening knot growing in his gut. “Okay.”
“And I want you to use it if needed.”
“I will. Sir.” And with that he stalked out of the cockpit.
FIFTEEN
The villip squirmed, stretching itself to its limits in an attempt to portray the fine mass of tendrils that composed the living headdress of Master Tjulan Kwaad. It did not entirely succeed, but did so sufficiently well that Nen Yim was able to tell that the senior master of her domain was agitated.
“Why disturb me over such a question?” Tjulan Kwaad asked. “You have access to the Qang qahsa, do you not?”
“I do indeed, Master Kwaad,” Nen Yim replied. “However, the qahsa does not grant a mere adept entry to protocols beyond the fifth cortex.”
“Nor should it. Adepts are not ready for such secrets. Especially adepts such as yourself. You and your deceased master disgraced our domain.”
“That is true,” Nen Yim said carefully. “However, Warmaster Tsavong Lah chose to pardon me and … reward me with a chance to further serve the glorious Yun-Yuuzhan. I should think my domain would do as much.”
“Do not presume what your domain would do,” Tjulan Kwaad replied testily. “Even the Yim crèche would not do as much. The warmaster is a warrior, covered in glory and more than ample as a warrior. But he is not a shaper, and he does not know how dangerous your heresies are.”
“Those were the heresies of my master, not mine,” Nen Yim lied.
“Yet you did not report her.”
Yun-Harla aid me, Nen Yim prayed. The mistress of trickery loved lies as much as Yun-Yammka loved battle. “How could discipline be maintained if every adept felt free to question her master?”
“You could have reported her to me,” Tjulan Kwaad roared. “You owe fealty to me as lord of your domain. Mezhan Kwaad was as much my subordinate as you. That you neglected that relationship will never be forgotten!”
“My judgment failed, Master. That does not change the fact that this ship is dying, and I need your help.”
“Each of us begins to die the instant we are born. Our ships are no different. That is existence, Adept.” He spoke her title as if it hurt his mouth to do so.
Undeterred by his ire, Nen Yim pressed on. “Master, is it not true that the Yuuzhan Vong need every breath of every one of us to complete the task of conquering the infidels?”
The master laughed harshly and without a trace of real humor. “Look around at the misfits on your ship, and you will know the answer. Were they worthy, they would be at the point of our talons.”
“An arm must drive the talons,” Nen Yim replied. “A heart must pump the blood to nourish the muscles that propel the arm.”
“Phahg. A metaphor is a preening lie.”
“Yes, Master.” Her experiments had yielded mostly frustration. She had been able—without resort to ancient protocols—to coax neurons into reproduction and shape ganglia that could perform many of the operations of the brain. She could probably, given time, shape an entirely new brain, but as she’d explained to her initiate, Suung, that would not solve the problem. She needed to regenerate the old brain, complete with its memories and eccentricities. Anything else she did only delayed the inevitable. Further, any master who examined her work would know instantly that she had been practicing heresy, and then her efforts to save the worldship would end quite decisively. She had hoped that the knowledge in the vast Qang qahsa library rikyams of the shapers would yield a helpful protocol at some cortex beyond her access, but if a master of her own domain would not help her, no one would.
“I thank you for your time, Master Tjulan Kwaad.”
“Do not disturb me again.” The villip smoothed back into its normal shape.
She sat for a time, tendrils bunched in despair, until her novice entered.
“How may I serve you today, Adept?” Suung Aruh asked.
Nen Yim did not spare him a glance. “The freezing of the arm has further diseased the maw luur. Take the other students and floss the recham forteps with saline jetters.”
“It will be done,” Suung replied. He turned to leave, but then hesitated. “Adept?” he said.
“What is it?”
“I believe you can save the Baanu Miir. I believe the gods are with you. And I thank you for tending to my education. I did not know how ignorant I was. Now I have some measure of it.”
Nen Yim’s sight clouded, the protective membrane over her eyes reacting to sudden intense emotion as it did to light irritation. She wondered briefly if anyone knew why such dissimilar things should provoke the same reflex. If it was known, she had never heard it. Perhaps that knowledge, too, was beyond the fifth cortex.
“The gods will save us or they will not, Initiate,” she replied at last. “It is not to me you should direct your confidence.”
“Yes, Adept,” he said, in a subdued voice.
She regarded him. “Your progress has been quite satisfactory, Suung Aruh. In the hands of a master you could be shaped into a most useful adept.”
“Thank you, Adept,” Suung replied, trying to hide a look of surprised gratification. “I go now to my task.”
As he left, she noticed the villip pulsing for attention. Wondering what new sarcoma was gnawing at the fabric of her life, she rose and stroked it.
It was Master Tjulan Kwaad again.
“Master,” she acknowledged.
“I have reconsidered, Adept. I am unswayed by your arguments, but I feel it foolish to leave you unsupervised lest you bring more shame to us all. I have dispatched a master to govern you. He will arrive within two days. Obey him well.”
The villip cleared before she could
answer. She stood staring at it as a beast stares at the wound that is killing it.
It hadn’t occurred to her that Tjulan Kwaad would send a master, only that he might find the protocol and transmit it to her. A master, here, would see what she had done, and know.
Perhaps the new master would save Baanu Miir, and that was good. But Adept Nen Yim would soon embrace death.
SIXTEEN
The interrogation chamber was a bleak, washed-out yellow room on the third floor of a building painted entirely in the same color. A sickly sweet scent like burned sugar and hair blended with ammonia seemed to ooze from the flaking duraplast, and the sickly light of ancient argon arc fixtures blanched any real color that entered the building.
Brought in in stun cuffs, Anakin and Tahiri had been hauled through a lower floor seething with judicials, prisoners, and clerks to this nearly abandoned area of the building. There the two Jedi had been separated and placed in different rooms. He could still feel Tahiri’s presence, of course, and not far away, which was comforting.
“We have witnesses now who substantiate the charge of murder,” the judicial with the bruised eye—Lieutenant Themion, as it turned out—informed him.
“Right. They killed the Rodian,” Anakin said.
“I’m talking now about the man you killed.”
“We didn’t kill anyone,” Anakin protested. “We saw someone in trouble—”
“A Jedi, like yourself.”
“Yes. We were trying to help him when the Peace Brigaders starting blasting at us.”
“The way I hear it, you attacked them.”
“My friend drew her weapon, yes,” Anakin replied. “They were murdering the Rodian.”
“Then you charged them, fought, and shot one with a blaster.”
“No!” Anakin said. “How many times do I have to tell you this? One of them shot at me, missed, and hit the other guy. I didn’t kill anyone, and neither did my friend.”
“We have witnesses who saw it differently.”
“You mean the other Peace Brigaders, don’t you?”
“And some of the vagrants in the crowd.”
That took Anakin aback. “Why … why would any of them say that?” he wondered.
“Maybe because it’s true,” Themion suggested.
“No, it’s not true. They’re lying, too. Maybe the Peace Brigade forced them to.” Or maybe you did, Lieutenant Themion.
“Let’s back up,” Themion said. “You saw the Rodian struggling with the Peace Brigaders. Rodians are a vile, murderous lot. Did it ever occur to you that maybe he had done something? That the officers of the Peace Brigade were just doing their duty?”
“The Peace Brigade is a collaborationist organization,” Anakin said hotly. “They sell us out to the Yuuzhan Vong.”
“The Peace Brigade is a registered organization,” Themion informed him. “They are licensed to make arrests, and to deal with those who resist arrest.” He scratched his chin. “They are certainly entitled to defend themselves against offworld, troublemaking Jedi,” he added.
Uh-oh, Anakin thought. So his suspicion had been correct. The police and the Peace Brigade were in this together.
“Am I entitled to an advocate?” Anakin asked.
“One has been assigned you.”
“When can we meet?”
“Not until your trial, of course.”
“You mean my sentencing.”
The officer smiled. “It might go easier on you if you tell us the rest. Who sent you. Which ship is yours. Your name.”
“I want to see the ambassador from Coruscant.”
“Yeah? I’m afraid I don’t have that comm ID handy. If you want to call someone on your ship, and have them contact the ambassador, that’s fine.”
Right. Then they’ll get Corran, too.
“No, thanks,” Anakin said.
The officer stepped forward quickly and slapped him so hard his head rang.
Tahiri, wherever she was, felt it. She responded in the Force in one of those rare, clear-as-transparisteel moments.
Anakin! And pain, and fear, and anger.
“Tahiri!” Anakin shouted. “No!”
“Your friend has already confessed,” Themion said. “She was stubborn, too.” He hit Anakin again. This time Anakin faded a little from the blow to reduce the impact, but it still hurt.
Somewhere near, a storm was gathering.
“Don’t hit me again,” Anakin said sternly.
Themion misunderstood. “Aw, does that hurt, little Jedi? Try this.” He pulled a stun baton from his belt.
“Really,” Anakin said.
Themion raised the weapon. At the same moment, the door wrenched open with a squeal of metal. Tahiri stood there, a blaster in one hand.
“Do-ro’ik vong pratte!” she shouted.
Themion, open-mouthed, turned to face her and she hit him with a Force blast that threw him three meters. He would have gone much farther, but the jaundiced wall stopped him with prejudice, and he collapsed, groaning.
“I warned you,” Anakin said.
Tahiri rushed to his side. “Are you all right?” she asked. “I felt them hitting you.”
“I’m fine,” Anakin said, rising from the chair. Unknown to the officer, he’d already unlocked his stun cuffs using the Force; now he shucked them from his wrists.
“You’re not fine,” Tahiri said, touching the side of his head. He winced. “You see?” she said. She turned back toward Themion, who was trying to rise. “You smelly Jawa, I’m going to—”
“You’re going to put the stun cuffs on him and that’s all,” Anakin said.
“He deserves worse. He’s a liar and a coward who beats helpless people.” Her eyes narrowed.
“Stay out of my mind, you stinking Jedi,” Themion snarled.
“Give me the blaster, Tahiri.”
She handed it to Anakin without looking.
“Now,” Anakin said. “You let her put these cuffs on you, or I’ll let her do whatever she wants.”
Themion let her. Then Anakin leaned around the doorway. A blaster bolt greeted him—down the hall, another judicial was rushing forward.
The shot missed, and he ducked the next one. He felt another surge in the Force, and the judicial went flying into the corridor wall. The impact knocked his senses out of him.
“I think we’d better leave,” Tahiri said, from behind him.
“I think you’re right,” Anakin replied. He knelt and took the guard’s blaster and dialed it down to the lowest setting. He took the stun baton, too.
“After we find our lightsabers,” Tahiri said.
“If we can find them,” Anakin cautioned. “They took mine somewhere downstairs. Or at least I think so.”
They reached the turbolift with a minimum of effort.
“Be ready when we reach the bottom floor,” Anakin said. “They’re sure to be ready for us. One of these guys must have called down by now.”
Tahiri nodded, an unsettling smile on her face.
“Tahiri?”
“Yes.”
“Beware of anger.”
“I’m not angry,” she said. “Just ready.”
Anakin eyed her dubiously, but they didn’t have time to go over it now. “Stand against the sides of the lift. They may shoot before it even opens.”
She did as he suggested. A moment later, the doors sighed open.
No sizzling bolts of energy greeted them. Instead they were met by laughter and shouts of encouragement. Puzzled, Anakin peeked around the lift door.
Two judicials stood in a ring formed by their comrades. They were swinging clumsily at one another with lightsabers. One was Anakin’s, the other Tahiri’s.
“Use the Force!” someone hooted, as the man wielding Anakin’s violet blade accidentally sliced a desk in half.
It took only a minor suggestion that they weren’t there for Anakin and Tahiri to walk out of the lift and around the edge of the excited crowd. Apparently, either no one upstairs had
called down or—more likely—no one here had bothered to answer the call. In any event, everyone in the building seemed completely engrossed in the “duel.”
“Keep cool, Tahiri,” Anakin said as they drew near the door to the outside. “I have an idea.”
The fellow holding Anakin’s lightsaber made a clumsy jab at the other judicial, who replied with an equally inept circular parry. Anakin took that opportunity to use the Force to wrench his weapon from the officer’s hands—it looked as if the parry had disarmed him. The lightsaber flew high in the air, sending everyone in its possible trajectory scurrying away. It struck the argon arc fixture in the ceiling, then continued on to strike the power grid node on the other side of the room. The room plunged into darkness, save for the two lightsabers, both of which suddenly vanished.
On the street, Tahiri burst into laughter.
“Don’t laugh,” Anakin said. “Run!”
“I’m just thinking we probably saved their lives,” Tahiri replied. “The way they were going, they would have lost at least a hand or two. If—” She stopped as Anakin abruptly halted.
“What?” Tahiri asked.
“Maybe running is the second-best idea,” Anakin said, pointing at the police airspeeder parked in front of the station.
The two jumped into the rusty orange vehicle. It had an old-fashioned computer input, and it took Anakin only a few seconds to slice into the security system. Just as a mob of officers burst onto the street, he bypassed the code and started the speeder. He throttled it up to full as he turned the corner and climbed, ignoring the craft’s artificially frantic warning that he was not in an authorized traffic lane.
A few blaster bolts seared by, along with a number of obscenities. Then the judicial ward was behind them.
* * *
By the time they reached the spaceport, Anakin and Tahiri had picked up a respectable tail and were starting to dodge long-range fire. For that reason, when Anakin saw the Lucre’s cargo port open, he drove the nimble craft directly into it, nearly clipping a very surprised Corran Horn while doing so.
