by James Luceno
“Without question,” Vergere assured. “Although it will be the members of your domain who profit.”
Elan continued to regard her. “You have so little faith that Harrar will be able to retrieve us after I have dispensed with the Jedi?”
Misgiving narrowed Vergere’s slanted eyes and ruffled the short feathers at the back of her neck. “I trust that Harrar will do all in his power to find you. But our movements won’t be easily monitored from this point on. Not after the assassin’s attack. Showolter will jump us about until we’re so deeply entrenched in New Republic space that even Nom Anor won’t be able to reach us.”
His injuries notwithstanding, the ever attentive Major Showolter had been careful not to identify the world to which they had been moved, though by all appearances it was even more remote and primitive than the last. On arriving, Elan had had the briefest view of impenetrable forests of peculiar trees. From snatches of overheard conversation it was clear that the planet boasted at least one small city, but also clear that Elan, Vergere, and the Intelligence operatives were far removed from it.
Elan stroked Vergere’s downy back. “If my duties demand that I die, then so be it, my pet. My domain will prosper. My father will be escalated to the rank of most-high priest.”
“And the determined Harrar will prosper.”
“That is not our concern.”
Vergere folded her arms and bowed her elongated head. “I will remain by your side, mistress.”
Gingerly, Elan examined the raw bruises the assassin’s powerful fingers had left on her neck. “I know the one Harrar sent,” she said after a moment. “He apprenticed under the Shai.”
Vergere pressed her hands to her eyes and applied some of her tears to Elan’s abraded flesh. “The same sect that spawned Commander Shedao Domain Shai.”
“The very same. Those of Domain Shai delight in inflicting pain for pain’s own sake—to themselves or to others unfortunate enough to stray into their reach. To the Shai, there is no higher calling than torment, the ‘embrace of pain.’ Pain is the beginning and the end.” Elan sighed relievedly. “Your tears refresh, my pet.”
Vergere continued to minister to her. “Harrar’s aim was to convince our captors of your importance, and in that he chose wisely. Better the New Republic thinks the Yuuzhan Vong intractable than reasonable.”
Elan nodded, without comment.
Though Vergere might have been born of the Yuuzhan Vong’s masterful talent for genetic manipulation, the exotic creature had in fact been transported to the main fleet two generations earlier by one of the first reams to reconnoiter the galaxy that had produced the Jedi. The scouting party had returned dozens of specimens to the worldships, including humans, Verpine, Talz, and others. After extensive experiments, some had expired and others had been sacrificed, but a few had been awarded as pets to children of select elite, such as Elan, youngest daughter of an adviser to Supreme Overlord Shimrra. Vergere’s uniqueness was thought by some to be sacred. Through the long years of negotiating the intergalactic void, through the long years of Elan’s rigorous training in the deception sect, Vergere had been her constant companion, confidante, friend, even tutor.
“Does it cheer you to be back among your own kind?” Elan asked carefully.
“Hardly my own kind, mistress.”
“Among your home species, then?”
Vergere’s large eyes smiled. “We Fosh were never at home among them. We were too few in number. Humankind had filled all the evolutionary gaps, bringing about the extinction of species like mine, which were merely holding a place, a niche in the continuum.”
“But you are delighted with the food.”
“Ah, the food,” Vergere said, laughing. “That is another matter.”
Elan grew serious. “You could reveal the truth to Showolter and escape back into your own realm.”
Vergere reached for Elan’s patterned hand and caressed it. “I am your familiar. Were it not for you, I would have been sacrificed or disposed of. We are linked until one of us dies.”
Elan exhaled with intent. “Despite what you say or what you choose to reveal, you know these species better than anyone else—even Nom Anor.”
Vergere shook her head. “The executor has made it his mission to study them—to know them better than they know themselves. We Fosh were more devoted to concealing ourselves.”
“From what little you know, then, are Showolter and the women who visited us taken in?”
“Were I privy to the debriefing I might be able to answer with certainty. Undoubtedly the assassin’s dedication to duty has helped to allay some of Showolter’s initial misgivings.”
Elan’s expression changed. “He is most accommodating, that one.”
“Because you have charmed him—as you do all.”
“Or course you would say that. Then you believe they will provide me with an opportunity to meet with the Jedi?”
“It is too soon to tell, mistress. Should Commander Tla deem it wise to furnish the New Republic with a victory to support the data you provided, you may yet meet with them.”
Elan considered it in silence. “Did you know of them in your time here?”
“As I say, the Fosh moved discreetly, but of course we knew of the Jedi. They were manifold. I was surprised to learn that they are now few.” She paused briefly. “I thank you for revealing nothing of my past to Harrar, mistress.”
Elan merely smiled. “Did you ever witness the Jedi employ the Force?”
“The Jedi consider the Force to be all around us, permeating all living things. So in that regard, I’m certain I witnessed the Force at work.”
“Perhaps it would benefit the Yuuzhan Vong to learn how to use it.”
Vergere took a moment to respond. “The Force is a sword with two edges, mistress. Cut one way and vanquish. But be careless on the backswing, or allow your mind to wander, and you risk undoing all you’ve accomplished.” She gazed at Elan. “Indeed, it might befit the Yuuzhan Vong to become aware of the Force, but it is not for all to employ. Such power should be reserved for those with the strength to heft the sword and the wisdom to know when to wield it.”
* * *
Squadrons of T-65A3 X-wings, E-wings, and TIE interceptors dropped from the forward launch bay of the Erinnic, an Imperial II-class Star Destroyer parked between Ord Mantell’s like-sized and close-quartered moons.
“Fighter groups are away,” an enlisted-rating reported from one of the crew pits below the overbridge’s command walkway. “Dispersing to assigned coordinates.”
“May the Force be with you,” Vice Admiral Ark Poinard sent over the command net.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a wry smile take shape on the deeply lined face of General Yald Sutel, onetime adversary turned ally in the war against the Yuuzhan Vong. “Problem, General?” Poinard asked, raising one bushy white eyebrow as he turned to Sutel.
Sutel shook his blockish head but kept smiling. “It’s just that I’m still not used to hearing you say it.”
Poinard snorted. “Believe it or not, I used to say it to myself even when this ship carried only TIE fighters.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment,” Sutel said. “Despite appearances, I always held the Force in high esteem.” Hands clasped behind their backs, the two elderly veterans continued to advance on the bridge’s semicircular expanse of triangular windows. As an accommodation to both the New Republic and the Imperial Remnant, Poinard had retained his honorific as captain of the flagship, while Sutel had been designated task force commander.
Of the sixteen vessels that comprised the group, some flew escort to the Erinnic, but most—including a Mediator-class Mon Calamari battle cruiser, two Quasar Fire-class cruiser-carriers, three escort frigates, and five Ranger-class gunships—had taken up positions above the bright side of the star system’s fifth planet. Since any ships jumping from Yuuzhan Vong-held space would have to enter the Bright Jewel Cluster Rimward of the planet, it was hoped that concealment would further enhan
ce the element of surprise.
Poinard paused above the most forward of the crew pits. “Any signs of activity?” he asked a technician standing at one of the consoles.
“Negative, sir.” The woman glanced at a readout, then up at the two commanders. “Forward elements report all quiet.”
“Looks like Admiral Sovv’s tacticians have us misdirecting our efforts,” Poinard told Sutel in confidence.
“This came down from Intelligence,” Sutel said.
“Even worse. Ord Mantell has little strategic value.”
Sutel cut his eyes from the starfield to Poinard. “Did Ithor? Did Obroa-skai? The Yuuzhan Vong are waging a psychological war. You of all people should understand. Didn’t your brother once command an AT-AT division?”
“Walkers had their place.”
“As prodigal terror weapons,” Sutel said. “The Yuuzhan Vong obviously mean to terrorize us in the same way—to break us by demoralizing us.”
“But Ord Mantell,” Poinard said dubiously. “Gamblers and tourists are the only ones they’ll demoralize.”
“Admiral Poinard,” the woman in the crew pit interrupted. “Forward elements report enemy vessels emerging from hyperspace and shedding velocity. Performance and drive profiles confirm Yuuzhan Vong warships.”
Poinard swung to the crew in the pit on the opposite side of the walkway, as banks of threat assessors began to talk to one another in machine code.
“Go to full alert status. All nonessentials are confined to quarters. Engage sublight drives and pull us tight to number-two moon.” He turned back to the female tech in the first pit. “How many vessels?”
“Sir, two corvette analogs, five frigate analogs, three light cruiser analogs, one warship analog.”
Someone behind Poinard and Sutel spoke up. “Sirs, wing commander reports from target approach point that fighter deployment is complete. Awaiting authorization to engage. Tactical bridge reports the call board as clear and all systems enabled.”
A holoprojection of the theater resolved above a light table in the forward pit. Poinard and Sutel studied it in silence.
“Looks like we’re evenly matched for once,” the general commented after a moment.
“Save for one advantage,” Poinard pointed out. “They don’t know we’re here.”
FOURTEEN
Han leaned his right shoulder against the pitted bars of the cramped jail cell and gently massaged the swollen knuckle of his left ring finger. “Good fight,” he said. “I really enjoyed it.”
Fasgo and Roa were seated on the squalid floor, backs against an equally fouled wall, the former with a comically swollen right ear, the latter looking remarkably unscathed.
“Some mess,” Roa said around a grin.
Fasgo gently fingered the tip of his nose. “Feels broken,” he muttered.
Roa clapped his former tax-and-tariff agent on the shoulder. “Next time remember that keeping out of range is often the best defense.”
“I’m only sorry the big one didn’t die,” Fasgo said.
“Give him time,” Han said loudly, gazing deliberately at the three Trandoshans in the cell directly across from theirs.
Fasgo held his thumb and forefinger close together. “The chair missed him by that much.”
“Tough break for that poor Bith at the next table,” Han said.
“We’re lucky he thought one of the Trandoshans threw it,” Roa interjected.
Fasgo nodded. “Having that group of balloon heads on our side definitely helped.”
“Keep your voice down,” Roa advised quietly. “They’re only two cells down the corridor.”
Fasgo waved a hand. “Half the crowd in the Bet’s Off is in here.” He glanced at Han and laughed. “We really started something.”
“Yeah, and security finished it.” Han chuckled. “No wonder the Wheel doesn’t allow armed blasters.”
A gate in desperate need of lubricant slid open down the corridor, and in short order a burly security guard in a gray uniform strode into view.
“All right, old-timers,” the guard announced churlishly, “you’re free to go.”
Han, Roa, and Fasgo exchanged mystified glances. “I thought we couldn’t post bail until the arraignment?” Roa said.
“You’re not being arraigned,” the guard said. “You must have some friends in high places.”
Roa looked at Han. “I think you’ve been made, ‘Roaky Laamu.’ The Trandoshan certainly had no trouble recognizing you.”
Han saw the sense of it. The word was out, and someone had contacted Leia.
The cell door slid aside, and the three of them filed out. Han stopped at the Trandoshans’ cell, careful to remain just out of their clawed reach. “We’ll have to do this again real soon,” he said, smiling.
“Count on it, Solo,” Bossk rasped.
The guard led them out of the confinement zone, turned their belongings, and pointed them to the exit. “Turn up here again and, friends or no, you’ll be sorry,” the man warned.
“Charming fellow,” Roa muttered.
Han agreed. “Probably works for Vessel Registration on his days off.”
No sooner had they stepped into the passageway than a surprisingly well-mannered Aqualish approached them. “Roa, Fasgo, Roaky Laamu,” the alien began in somewhat garbled Basic, courtesy of his inward-turning tusks. “My employer requests the pleasure of your company.”
“Boss B,” Roa reminded Han quietly. “The information broker.”
Fasgo gulped.
“Did we ask around?” Han asked theatrically. “I don’t recall us asking around.”
The Aqualish—a Quara—showed the palms of fingered hands. “Come now, gentlemen. Surely you can spare a few moments for the person who arranged for your release.”
The sprung trio traded surprised glances. “Well, in that case,” Han said, “lead on.”
A repulsor limousine conveyed them ninety degrees around the Wheel, at times maneuvering through knots of stranded and despondent refugees. The swank hatchway to Boss B’s lair was flanked by pug-nosed and prognathous Gamorrean sentinels, and the plush anteroom was filled with an assortment of toadies, sycophants, and camp followers. Stroking their long head-tails, two Twi’lek women in mesh bodysuits sprawled seductively in conform loungers. Elsewhere, a Rodian, a Kubaz, a Whiphid, and two Weequays were engaged in a desultory game of laro, while a bored Bith ran musical scales on a slender horn.
The Aqualish showed Han and the others to overstuffed armchairs in the main room and offered them drinks. Han remained standing.
“Save the Gizers for the Bet’s Off,” a disembodied baritone voice suggested. “Have a tumbler of Whyren’s Reserve instead.”
“Now, that I won’t turn down,” Fasgo said, beaming.
“Make it two,” Roa told the Aqualish.
“Three,” Han said hesitantly, trying to discern the source of the resonant voice. One entire wall of the room was devoted to flatscreen displays, showing frequently shifting views of different sectors of the Wheel. On one monitor, Han recognized the immigration station where his blaster had been drained.
“Sit, please,” the voice rumbled.
Han consented to the request when the amber-colored Corellian whiskey arrived. “Cheers,” he said, setting his travel pack on the floor and lifting his glass in the air to their unrevealed host.
“More of the same,” Roa said, joining Han in the toast.
“Your reputation precedes you, gentlemen,” the voice said.
Fasgo ran the back of his hand over his mouth. “If you mean the damage to the Bet’s Off, the Trandoshans were responsible for most of it—”
“You can blame me for that,” Boss B interrupted. “I put them up to it.”
“You? Why?” Han demanded.
“How else could I have ensured that you would accept my hospitality, except by arranging for you to be released from incarceration?”
“I don’t get it,” Han said.
Boss B laughed. “I
am personally informed when individuals of honorable or disreputable distinction arrive on the Jubilee Wheel. Such was the case with you, Roa. But imagine my surprise when, after a bit of machine-assisted scrutiny, I discovered your traveling partner to be none other than Han Solo.”
On hearing the name, the Bith ceased his noodling and the Twi’lek women and the cardplayers turned in unison. Han drained the glass in one gulp and set it down roughly.
Boss B laughed boomingly. “I have to say, Solo, I expected a younger man.”
“Yeah, well, I used to be one.”
“As did I,” Boss B conceded. “In any event, after I learned that you were bound for the Bet’s Off—where I already knew Bossk and his comrades to be—I simply relayed word to the Trandoshan that an old rival of his had turned up. It wasn’t difficult to predict where things would go from there.”
“That’s your idea of hospitality, huh?” Han said.
“Come, Solo, you said yourself that you enjoyed the fight.”
Han snorted. “You planning to show yourself or are we going to have to play ‘name that voice’?”
Not three meters in front of Han, a shroud field dissipated, revealing what might have been the outcome of a Hutt and human mating. Though the lavender-hued humanoid managed to get around on two tree-trunk-thick legs—possibly with the assistance of repulsorcoil implants—he had the girth of a young Hutt and a head too large to fit through an ordinary hatchway. His round face was symmetrical and possessed the usual human features, but each was so outsized that they vied with one another for prominence. Shiny and slightly protruding, his eyes were the size of small saucers, his nose was a large flattened disk, and a thick, bristly gray mustache covered almost all of his labrose mouth. Disheveled, slate-colored hair crowned his head like an abandoned avian’s nest, and enormous pink ears flapped against his skull like wings. In the reddish-stained fingers of one huge hand he held a fat, chak-root cigarra.
Han nearly fell out of his chair. “Big Bunji?”
The giant humanoid guffawed in merriment, laughing his mouth empty of aromatic smoke. “Boss Bunji, Han.”
