Star Wars: New Jedi Order: Agents of Chaos I: Hero's Trial

by James Luceno

  “This black stuff is bo-whatever?”

  Elan shook her head. “What you see is the aftermath of bo’tous—a harmless residue.” She gestured to the forward seats. “What they inhaled killed them.”

  Vergere stepped from the cargo hold and stifled a scream.

  “Everyone but you two are dead,” Han said.

  Elan stared at him in bewilderment. “But who did this?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. Could the Peace Brigade have been carrying some of that. . . stuff?”

  “Yes, possibly. They had a dovin basal and an unmasker. They might have had bo’tous, as well.” She looked at Han. “Perhaps they planned to use it on passengers aboard the starliner.”

  “Why didn’t it affect you?”

  “On launch from the Queen of Empire, they sealed us into the compartment where you found us.” She held his gaze. “We Yuuzhan Vong are immune, in any case.”

  Han nodded noncommittally and activated the comlink. “Droma, meet me in the docking arm. I’m bringing them aboard.”

  “You’d better be quick about it,” Droma replied rapidly. “That warship’s headed right for us!”

  TWENTY-SIX

  With missiles from the Yuuzhan Vong frigate slamming against her shields and detonating to all sides, the Millennium Falcon raced back toward the still-immobile starliner. Beams from the Thurse’s main batteries lashed blue light at the frigate, but to no apparent effect.

  “You’re telling me it jumped that far in a second?”

  Han yelled at Droma while he fought to stabilize his ship.

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you! One second it was there, the next it was practically right on top of us!”

  Han’s hands flew across the cockpit console. “Angle the rear deflectors! If we can’t outrun them, we can at least try to stay in one piece!” He looked over his shoulder at Elan and Vergere. “Get to the acceleration couch in the forward hold!”

  Droma waited until they had disappeared to say, “Vergere’s not an extragalactic, Han. I don’t know the species, but I have seen her type before.”

  Han glanced at him. “What are you telling me? That she’s an impostor?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe only that those two don’t add up.”

  “You don’t trust them?”

  “Do you?”

  Han considered his answer, then shook his head. “Something’s been nagging at me. Why would the Yuuzhan Vong send a warship to back up the Peace Brigade? If they knew Elan was aboard the Queen, they would have done the job themselves. And another thing: even if some Yuuzhan Vong bioweapon escaped aboard the shuttle, that doesn’t explain the shuttle’s decelerating the way it did.”

  “Unless the Yuuzhan Vong deliberately slowed it down.”

  Han made his lips a thin line. “Exactly what I was thinking. You remember Reck’s man reporting that the corvette was glitched—that they couldn’t disengage from the Queen?”

  Droma nodded. “The corvette pulled the Queen from hyperspace, but suddenly was unable to break away from her.”

  “Which could happen if the Yuuzhan Vong tasked the dovin basal aboard the corvette to hold fast to the Queen.”

  The Falcon shook as a projectile caught up with her. Han and Droma flinched, but dozens more missiles streaked past the ship to port and starboard.

  “I’m tempted to see what happens if we stop taking evasive action.”

  “Not too tempted, I hope,” Droma said worriedly. Han growled. “I’ve gone up against the Yuuzhan Vong ships before. They just don’t miss this often. It’s like they’re doing everything they can to convince us they want their property back—”

  “When they actually want Elan and Vergere to remain where they are.”

  Han rubbed his jaw. “But why the ruse?”

  “Something unrevealed,” Droma said leadingly. “The Queen of Air and Darkness.”

  Han scowled. “I don’t put any stock in card games.”

  Droma shrugged. “Watching you play sabacc, I would have thought otherwise.”

  Han fell silent for a moment, then reached for his pack and located his bolstered blaster. Getting to his feet, he buckled the holster around his hips and fastened the thigh grip.

  “Take over,” he told Droma.

  He hurried to the forward hold, where Elan and Vergere were seated side by side on the acceleration couch.

  “Can you outspeed the warship?” Elan asked in a way that was meant to sound guileless.

  “Probably not,” he told her. “But I think your people will make us think we did.”

  She looked at him questioningly.

  “I mean that I’m beginning to think they don’t want you back. That this whole thing—your defection, maybe even this battle—is part of some elaborate scheme your superiors cooked up.”

  “You don’t care that I have important information for the Jedi?” she said in a scurrilous but composed voice.

  Wrestling with uncertainty, Han paced the hold. “I don’t know what to think.” He came to a halt and regarded the two of them. “I suppose I could take you back to the Queen and let Jedi Master Skywalker decide.”

  “Yes,” Elan said hurriedly, “you must at least do that.”

  Han heard her. But what struck him was the look of shocked recognition that played briefly over Vergere’s exotic features.

  “You’re right,” he said at last. “I guess I’m just being overly suspicious.”

  He turned, as if to head to the cockpit, then stopped and said, “That creature that shredded your ooglith masquer aboard the Queen—does it respond only to a Yuuzhan Vong handler or will it adapt to anyone?”

  “Only a Yuuzhan Vong,” Elan said.

  Han saw her stiffen, if ever so slightly. “You said the Yuuzhan Vong are immune to that bioweapon that got loose aboard the shuttle.”

  Face tightened with hatred, she nodded.

  And Han grinned.

  “You just remembered that I found the handler dead in the cockpit—a Yuuzhan Vong handler. You loosed that bioweapon from the safety of the cargo hold. When the toxin had dispersed enough, you came out and tipped over the handler’s carry case, knowing it would draw my attention. You were never drugged. That was all part of the act.”

  Han’s smile straightened and he cocked his head toward the Falcon’s starboard ring corridor. “Droma! Take us about. Steer a course for the Yuuzhan Vong ship!”

  Though muted by distance, Droma’s “What?” teemed with disbelief.

  “You heard me. Unless I’m seriously mistaken, they won’t fire on us.” Drawing his blaster, he ordered Elan and Vergere to rise from the couch. “I’m not taking any chances with you two.”

  “You’re making a big mistake,” Elan said.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time, sister. Stand up and get moving.”

  He gestured them into the portside ring corridor and marched them aft to the Falcon’s noisy rear compartment. Scrunched between the deck and the exhaust conduits of the bellowing power core, and to either side of an access shaft that had once contained a freight elevator, were the ship’s escape pods.

  Roomy, state-of-the-art spheroids in keeping with the Falcon’s status as a family vehicle, the pods were launched through ventral hatches by explosive separator charges, and featured such amenities as padded g-couches; a sophisticated sensor, communications, and flight-control suite; an automatically activated distress beacon; maneuvering jets; soft-landing coils; and enough rations and survival gear to keep two or three people equipped for a good while.

  Han considered confining the bogus defectors in one of the pods, but quickly changed his mind. For all he knew, they had some way of poisoning the Falcon the way they had Reck’s shuttle.

  He approached one of the portside pods and slammed his hand on the hatch release stud. When the broad, circular hatch had irised open, Han motioned to it. “You’re going back where you belong, ladies, marked ‘returned to sender.’“

  He waved the blaster
, and Elan climbed nimbly into the pod. Vergere was about to follow when Elan suddenly brushed her aside, grabbed hold of Han, and tugged him headfirst into the sphere. Slamming him into the curved hull, she backed toward the still-open hatch, her mouth an intentional rictus of retaliation.

  Han shook his head in an attempt to uncross his eyes. He raised the blaster and squeezed the trigger, only to realize that it was depleted. Staring at the useless thing, he felt his jaw drop.

  “Careless,” Elan said as she continued to sidle toward the hatch. “But don’t worry, I’ll gladly put you out of your misery.”

  “Huh?” he asked dizzily.

  She grinned malevolently. “One breath for you, one left for the Jedi. Breathe deeply, Han.”

  Crouched to spring through the hatch, she forced an interminable exhale. Then, whirling about, she leapt for the hatch. But the Falcon, dodging fire, slewed acutely to starboard and the hatch irised shut. Dumped onto his back, Han again got the wind knocked out of him. At the same time, Elan hit the closing hatch and rebounded.

  Bug-eyed with fear, she scrambled to her feet and tried desperately to force the hatch open. She balled her hands and pounded on the porthole with all her might. Expertly, she side-kicked it, then threw her weight against the hatch repeatedly, but it refused to budge.

  Dumbfounded and still unable to catch his breath, Han heard a voice say, Poisoned air—though he couldn’t be sure just whose voice he was hearing, or indeed if it was actually a voice or a thought that had come to him in response to what he’d observed on the shuttle.

  As if on its own, his hand seized the survival tool clipped to his belt. Fumbling frantically with the compressed oxygen feature, he finally managed to shove the twin-tanked device to his lips and bite down on the spatulate mouthpiece to start the oxygen flowing. Through the pod porthole, he caught a brief glimpse of Vergere, but he couldn’t tell if she was attempting to open the hatch or secure it further.

  Elan swung away from the hatch in dread, her lips pressed tightly together and her face a blotchy red. Staring at Han, she made a grab for him, but he sidestepped and tripped her in the process. Collapsing to her hands and knees, she threw a baleful look over her shoulder, cursing Han with every cell in her body, then inhaled hoarsely.

  Her body went rigid. A sudden cough sent blood fountaining from her mouth. From eyes, ears, and nose it poured as she lifted her head and howled in anguish. Mouth twisted around the lifesaving inhaler, Han backed away, pressing himself to the curved wall and averting his gaze. Spots formed before his eyes, and he thought he might pass out. Then the spots began to precipitate and scurry madly around the pod.

  The black residue of Elan’s toxic exhalation crawling all over him, he staggered for the hatch and hammered the release stud with the heel of his hand. Wild-eyed he hastened to the pod’s comlink, only to find it dead, owing perhaps to a Yuuzhan Vong projectile that had penetrated the Falcon’s weakened shields. He brushed frantically at the tiny life-forms and crushed dozens at a time with stomps of his feet.

  A warning tone sounded from the survival tool. He was fast running out of air. Eyes bulging from his head, he slammed his fists against the padded hatch and porthole. He was down to recycling his last breath when the hatch suddenly irised open, and he pitched headfirst to the floor of the rear hold.

  Gulping air, he looked up to see Droma standing over him.

  “What made you come back here?” Han asked between breaths.

  “A feeling,” Droma told him.

  Han gestured weakly to the pod. “The bugs. . . ”

  Droma caught sight of Elan’s bloodied corpse and momentarily froze. Then he quickly resealed the hatch and began killing escapees with his hands and feet. Shortly, some of the few remaining critters began to expire on their own, transforming into featherweight husks.

  Han propped himself against the bulkhead and wiped sweat from his forehead. “That’s two I owe you.”

  “I’ll add it to your tab,” Droma said, panting.

  A ship-rattling explosion brought Han fully alert. “Where’s Vergere?”

  Droma glanced down the ring corridor and shook his head.

  “Get back to the cockpit,” Han said. “I’ll find her.”

  Another powerful strike sent the Falcon on edge, and out of the starboard ring corridor flew Elan’s familiar, crashing into Han just as he was getting to his feet. The collision sent him careening against the sealed escape pod and the hatch release stud. The hatch irised open once more and a few last critters leapt through the door and found purchase on the front of Han’s shirt. Stuttering a phobic cry, he whisked them away, then turned his attention to Vergere, who had planted herself in the center of the hold, arms at her sides and her reverse-articulated legs tensed for action.

  “Don’t make this hard on yourself,” Han warned.

  Another projectile found the ship, rocking it to its ribs. Droma’s voice wailed from an intercom annunciator in the bulkhead. “Han, you sure the Yuuzhan Vong don’t want them back? They’re being awfully convincing!”

  Han kept his gaze on Vergere and adopted a combat stance. “They’re gonna have to settle for half,” he mumbled.

  Vergere brought out her right hand to show Han a drinking bulb she had obviously grabbed from the galley. Squeezing the bulb, she suddenly brought it to her right eye as if to suction brimming tears.

  Han hurled himself at her, but Vergere executed an agile leap that carried her out of reach, then another that front-flipped her straight into the escape pod. Han made a lunge for the pod, but an evasive maneuver by Droma set the ship on edge once more, and Han went sailing past the pod and a quarter of the way down the portside ring corridor. By the time he regained his balance and had stumbled back to the rear hold, Vergere was already arming the pod’s separator charges. Han reached through the hatch for her, only to have his hands deflected.

  “Thank you, Han Solo, for giving me the chance to return to my own kind,” she told him. Without warning, she tossed the filled bulb at him. “See that this reaches the jedi.”

  Reflexively, Han caught the bulb, then tossed it aside. He threw himself at the closing hatch, but not in time. The pod’s launch warning system came to life with flashing light and metered sound.

  Han beat a fast retreat into the rear hold and flattened himself to the deck grating as the pod launched with a concussive thump that made his ears pop.

  “Blast!” he screamed, yanking himself upright.

  Rushing to the cockpit, he found Droma still steering a slalom course directly for the Yuuzhan Vong frigate.

  “The other way, the other way!” Han screamed, heaving himself into the pilot’s seat.

  “Make up your mind!” Droma yelled back.

  Han took the controls and threw the Falcon into an ascending loop, hoping to catch sight of the launched escape pod on the downward curve. For a moment he had the sphere in the ship’s tracking reticle, but he lost it just as quickly as a Yuuzhan Vong missile streaked across the Falcon’s bow.

  The flaming projectile appeared to lock on to the pod like a predator hot on a blood scent. A blinding explosion forced Han to glance away, and when he looked back the pod was gone. A second later, however, he thought he glimpsed it out of the corner of his eye, plunging toward the night side of a heavily cratered planetoid. Then again, it was possible that the frigate’s dovin basal had already captured the pod and brought it on board.

  An agitated voice issued from the communications console. “Han, what the blazes are you doing? I thought you wanted cover fire.”

  “We do, we do!” Han told Mak Jorlen. “Punch it, Droma!”

  The Falcon banked sharply, barrel-rolled to evade a slew of projectiles, and sped toward the Thurse. With the field clear, the cruiser-carrier opened up with all batteries, stunning the Yuuzhan Vong ship with ion cannon and turbolaser fire. A few remaining battleworthy coralskippers attempted to launch suicide runs at the Thurse, but were instantly pulverized. Defenseless, the frigate abandoned purs
uit of the Falcon. Then, streaking away, it made an abrupt jump to lightspeed.

  Han leveled out the ship and Droma cut her speed. He and the Ryn collapsed in their seats, as if someone had just let the air out of them.

  “Is it over?” Droma asked after a moment.

  Han nodded. “For the time being.”

  Droma glanced at Han and uttered a short laugh. “You know, I could almost believe you’ve been doing this sort of thing all your life.”

  Han pushed himself upright in the chair and favored him with a roguish grin. “What makes you think I haven’t?”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Removed from the frenzied tempo of lofty Coruscant, deep in a vertical slice of the city-world known colloquially as the Abyss, a mixed-species dozen sat nervously at a long table in a windowless and otherwise secure chamber. The chamber resided at the heart of the entombed headquarters of the New Republic’s Intelligence division and was accessible to upper-echelon officers only. In a sterile realm of artificial illumination and sunlight purloined by shafts and mirrors, the big-leafed shrub lodged in a corner of the chamber stood out like a chance oasis, and so had been given the name Mirage.

  Separate conversations came to art abrupt halt when an entry-granted tone sounded from the door and Director Dif Scaur stamped into the room, a sheaf of durasheet documents and optical prints under one arm and a gunmetal-gray modified protocol droid trailing in his wake. Everyone was standing by the time he reached the head of the table, but the obvious attempt at deference only deepened his scowl and he motioned brusquely for everyone to be seated. A former admiral with the Fourth Fleet, Scaur was tall and gaunt, with watery blue eyes and a pronounced widow’s peak.

  “I’ve been in meetings with Defense Force command staff all morning,” he began on a sullen note, “and the advisory council is expecting a full report later this afternoon. So the sooner we get this done the better.”

  Scaur glanced angrily at his deputy director of operations. “Colonel Kalenda, since you’ve been attached to this fiasco from the beginning, I’d like you to start by telling me which parts of Han Solo’s report can be considered fact and which parts can be dismissed as owing to an obvious case of space giddiness. Frankly, I’m not even clear on how the defectors wound up in his hands to begin with.”