Balance Point

by Kathy Tyers

  “I did. That’s the worst of it.”

  “You?”

  She sighed. “I was chasing a skip. At Kalarba,” she added.

  “Yes, they told us. I guess Druckenwell’s gone, too?” That had been a major Imperial manufacturing center.

  “And Falleen. They’ve reached Rodia. It’s the heavy end of the hammer, pounding and pounding.”

  “Unbelievable,” Jacen muttered, wondering if the Falleen had fought to the last drop of green blood or else used their infamous pheromones to buy a measure of freedom.

  Jaina didn’t offer details, and this wasn’t the time to press. “I stayed a little too close to a cruiser that was under attack,” she said. “When it blew, I … caught some radiation. I should be fine in a couple of weeks,” she insisted. “No permanent damage.”

  “Good.”

  In return, Jacen gave her a fast explanation of Thirty-two’s water purification project, the ancient pit mine that had filled with toxic groundwater, the settlement’s nominal partnership with Gateway beyond low, blasted hills, and their supply problems. CorDuro Shipping, contracted by SELCORE to deliver supplies to the refugee domes, had missed two shipments this month and been late with the other eleven.

  “There’s plenty of work here,” he added. “Mechanical stuff. Your specialty.”

  She snorted. “Save it for somebody who doesn’t know how to vape skips, Jacen. They’re taking this galaxy away from us. The forces need every decent pilot we can get. That’s where you ought to be. Even Dad.”

  She sounded disturbingly like Randa—anxious, angry. Again he thought of his vision, and the potential repercussions of one step in the wrong direction.

  “Instead of stuck here, taking care of helpless folks?” Clarani put in. “Think again, young woman. Who were you fighting to save? You’re not out there playing death-tag for fun and excitement.”

  “True.” To Jacen’s surprise, Jaina’s voice sank. “And I worry … a little … that when I get back in an X-wing, I’ll punk out.”

  “Not you,” Jacen said.

  “It’s different now.” She laced her fingers on the lap of her dark gray coverall. “Did they tell you I lost Sparky?”

  “No.” Jacen turned toward the Ryn woman. “Sparky was her personal droid. She’s had him—”

  “A while,” Jaina said. “Long enough to start depending on him. I know they’re just mechanical, but … he was great.” Her shoulders slumped.

  Jacen shook his head.

  “Never having owned a droid,” the Ryn woman said, “I might not seem sympathetic. But we’ll all lose more than we already have, before all this is over.”

  “You ended up EV?” Jacen asked.

  Jaina nodded.

  He compressed his lips. Losing a fighter around you and going extravehicular did terrible things to the comforting illusions that kept fighter pilots rushing into those cockpits. At the back of their minds, it was always the other guy who got shot up—the one who just wasn’t as quick, or as good in a clinch shot, or as sharp-eyed. He stared at Jaina’s mask.

  “Want dinner?” he asked. “Part of the stink is what we’ll eat tonight.”

  Jaina shook her head. “My day cycle just shifted. It’s almost midnight where I’ve been. I just want to sleep.

  “Do me a favor,” she added, looking straight at him. Jacen felt her emotions shift subtly. “I want to spend the night in a healing trance. Give me a push. I can’t get as deep as I want, without you.”

  He hesitated.

  “I know,” she said. He had the sense that her stare, such as it was, didn’t waver. “The whole galaxy knows you’ve been trying not to use the Force. This is me, your sister. I need to get well.”

  “You’re right.” Embarrassed, he shoved his reluctance aside. “I’ll help. But you need to know that it’s gotten worse.”

  “Why?” she demanded. When she tilted her head up and frowned, she looked almost exactly like their mom.

  “I saw … this vision.” He described it for her.

  She listened, nodding—but she asked again for his help. He couldn’t refuse. Soon she lay in a deep healing subsleep, her chest rising and falling so slowly that a stranger might have worried that she wasn’t breathing.

  But when he looked with his spirit, he saw that her legs, right side, and left hand were all targets of an intense effort. Around and through her eyes, energy flowed with particular intensity. Bacta, that miraculous microscopic healer, had done such a good job on her tissue injuries that she wouldn’t have any visible scars. She wouldn’t limp much longer, either.

  I’d be a good healer, he complained to himself, but he knew the answer to that. Just because he was skilled in an area, that didn’t make it the call on his life. People who told him he was lucky to be so broadly “gifted” didn’t have to make his decisions.

  The next morning, he spotted her ambling up the alley, trailing one hand along the rough wall of the nearest hut. He grabbed her other hand and guided her to a mess area. Ryn of all ages congregated around five females with site-built cooking pots. Jaina sniffed the air.

  Jacen touched her elbow and guided her to a place in line. “Looks like—” He glanced into the nearest pot. “Mm, breakfast phraig.” He lowered his voice and muttered in Jaina’s ear, “SELCORE must’ve gotten a contract for some planet’s entire phraig harvest …” He trailed off as the nearby cook spotted them.

  “The Rogue pilot,” she exclaimed.

  Up and down the serving line, Ryn heads turned. Two leather-winged Vors stared down pointed faces. A family of humans set their trays aside and applauded.

  Jaina’s lips twisted.

  “You to the front of the line, missy,” the cook said. “Maybe we can’t do anything for your wingmates, but you tell them—when you get back—that Camarata said thank you.”

  When Jaina tried to protest, Jacen elbowed her. “These refugees can only give you a touch of special treatment. It’s all they have. Let them honor Rogue Squadron, if you don’t want it for yourself.”

  He guided her to the front of the line, steadied her bowl while one of the women ladled a dipper full of pale-brown steamed grains, mixed with a few bits of dried fruit. Then he got himself a bowlful and grabbed two mugs of imitation caf.

  They took a seat on a long slab of duracrete. Jaina gripped her spoon halfway up the handle and got a bite into her mouth.

  “Bland,” she said, “but not bad. I’m sorry I was lousy company last night.”

  “This can’t be real easy for you.”

  “Always understanding everybody else’s viewpoint, that’s my little brother.”

  He smiled wryly. For about two years, she had been taller.

  She shook her head, then turned aside, so he saw the reflection of a Ryn family on her faceplate. “I hate this,” she said. “I’m the older sister. The ace pilot. Did you know, I almost got as many kills in the last three weeks as the squadron’s top ten percenters? Do you realize what that means to me?”

  “Yes. You’re one of the hottest pilots there ever was.”

  “I’m scared to lose that, Jacen.”

  “Of course. But I read your diagnosis pad last night. You really are expected to get better. Fast.”

  “Then why did they send me here?” Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  “I told you last night. The med facilities are bursting.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “And do you know they haven’t been able to raise Mom?”

  “I don’t understand that.”

  “Well, they didn’t try real long and hard. But I hope nothing happened to her.”

  “We’d know if …” Jacen trailed off.

  “So where is she?”

  He shrugged. “Working refugees. She could be here on Duro, and we’d never know it. We can’t keep the comm cables up, the murk’s too thick for line-of-sight, and we haven’t gotten a good antenna from SELCORE yet.”

  Jaina finished her breakfast and patted the duracrete, looking for her mug.<
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  As Jacen shoved it toward her hand, he spotted motion at the edge of his field of vision. An immense, tan-colored blob of motion.

  “Uh-oh,” he murmured.

  “What?” Her head whipped around.

  “Randa,” he said quickly, “our resident Hutt. Wants revenge on the Yuuzhan Vong. He’ll try to get you into his own plans for combat. He’s been working on me.”

  “Tell him I can’t.”

  “You tell him,” Jacen said. “Here he comes.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Two days later, Jacen adjusted his breath mask and leaned against Thirty-two’s duracrete main gate, waiting for the CorDuro supply shuttle. The gray dome faded toward a foggy height. SELCORE couldn’t afford to equip its refugees with costly enviro-suits, only cheap chem suits and cumbersome rebreathers like Jacen’s. There were times when he’d gladly blast off again.

  Randa’s offer rose back to his mind, but he rejected it. If he turned to aggression, that would betray everything he’d promised to stand for, not to mention his vision.

  But couldn’t he fight without using the Force?

  On his right, the sealed end of a retracted, tube-shaped cofferdam lay along one edge of a blasted-out crater. That tube could be run out to mate with a freighter’s cargo hatch. Thirty-two had been promised a load of chemical fertilizers for its hydroponics operation. Without them, the new crop of foodstuffs would wither in the tanks.

  Still, it didn’t take a Jedi Master to realize this freighter wasn’t coming. Frowning, Jacen slipped into the wide gate, a modified airlock. He paused to let air currents whisk most of the crud off of his clothes, sloshed his boots in a settling tub, then paced up the dome’s edge to the control shed.

  “It isn’t coming,” a deep voice rumbled.

  Randa had positioned his belly in front of the control board. Two older humans sat cross-legged on the floor, playing a tile game. Beyond them, the viewbubble looked out on the landing zone’s blast crater.

  “Any word out of Nal Hutta?” Jacen asked gently.

  “The Glorious Jewel,” Randa fumed, “is under remote bombardment. Missiles are bursting in her atmosphere. They are causing no damage my people’s sensors can pick up from remote stations, but we know what the enemy did to Ithor.”

  Jacen frowned. “Did your people evacuate?”

  “Many of my kajidic had already left for Gamorr and Tatooine. Rodia, too.” Randa’s broad slash of a mouth pulled aside. “But now Rodia’s under attack.”

  Jacen shook his head.

  “Noble news out of Kubindi, though. Tragic, but noble.”

  “Oh?” Jacen leaned one arm against the comm board. News from outsystem was getting rare enough to tolerate listening to Randa relay it.

  “Word is out that Kyp’s Dozen—”

  Jacen clenched a hand at that name, but he didn’t interrupt.

  “—held off a Yuuzhan Vong attack force long enough that the Kubaz got every spaceworthy ship offplanet. You cannot call that anything less than heroic.”

  Grandstanding came to mind, but Jacen held his peace. “I thought he was over at Bothawui.”

  “Exactly. Anticipating their attack, he made the long trek—”

  “Listen, Randa.” Jacen frowned. “I just don’t admire Kyp the way you do.” And Kyp has no patience with Hutts—but Jacen didn’t say that. “He killed millions.”

  Randa waved a stubby arm. “Long ago. He was young—”

  “Well, I’m young now. And I don’t approve.”

  “Tragic,” Randa said softly. “The way the Jedi are dividing. Supposedly, Jedi protect others. I see none of that from you, Jedi Solo. Take Wurth Skidder. He was a warrior.” He recited the story again: Skidder’s bravery on board the Yuuzhan Vong clustership; Skidder’s attempt to communicate with the hideous yammosk war coordinator; Skidder dying in bitter agony, sending the rescue crew off without him. Randa had vowed to avenge himself on the Yuuzhan Vong, honoring Wurth Skidder.

  Jacen wondered what the young Hutt really wanted.

  “As far as I can see,” Randa concluded, “Durron is the only Jedi who truly is carrying the fight to the Yuuzhan Vong.”

  “That’s only half true,” Jacen said carefully. “The Jedi based on Coruscant are working just as hard as Kyp, without calling attention to themselves. No fanfares, no tricks flying into battle—”

  Randa spat toward a bucket he’d placed in the room’s darkest corner. The tile-game players startled, then returned to their game.

  “How long,” he rumbled, “will Coruscant hold out if the Yuuzhan Vong attack?”

  “That’s the last place the fleets would let them take.” But Jacen had wondered the same thing. That really would be the end—and Uncle Luke had stood near Coruscant in his vision. “Listen, Randa. Master Skywalker is right—we have to be cautious about using the Force. We have to resist anger, hate, and aggression. Those will tempt us into an evil that’s just as dangerous as the Yuuzhan Vong.”

  Randa grumbled in Huttese.

  “It’s right for us to gather intelligence,” Jacen pressed. “To protect and advise others. To heal their hurts. That’s the force of good, Randa. Kyp’s people … maybe they haven’t slipped over to the dark side, but they’re sliding.”

  Randa clenched his tiny hands and puffed up to his full size. “Spare me your dark side and light side. If you’re a Jedi, act like a Jedi, or get out of the way and let other Jedi do what this war requires … to protect others!”

  “I’m working on that,” Jacen insisted.

  Abruptly, Randa turned conciliatory. “Of course you are,” he soothed, but not before Jacen made one more mental note about Randa Besadii Diori’s flattery: It could turn ugly in an instant. The Hutt was a spice merchant, a manipulator. “Here is my vision,” Randa said. “My fantasies have matured, and you could find glory helping me fulfill them.”

  Jacen rolled his eyes. “Go ahead.”

  Randa moistened his lips with his fat, wedge-shaped tongue. “I see myself,” he said, “as a pirate chieftain, wreaking havoc on the Yuuzhan Vong … with Kyp Durron as my example.”

  Jacen wondered how Kyp would react to a Hutt using him as an example.

  “Who better to head my squadron than a Jedi? And fate has delivered a Jedi to me, one who has withdrawn from their normal operations. You see, Jacen, all I need is to somehow get an influence over you, then convince you to do what I want.”

  Surprisingly frank, for a Hutt. “There isn’t a single ship here at Thirty-two that would suit your purposes.”

  “No,” the Hutt admitted. “But over at Gateway, there are faster vessels. Ours for the taking.”

  “No, Randa. I won’t steal, I don’t want to be a pirate, and I don’t believe in your vision. I’m sorry. Now, I need a GOCU line.”

  Sighing heavily, Randa slid away from the main comm board. Jacen settled in at the ground-orbit comm unit, drumming his fingers on its edge while he waited for his call to go through. He wondered if Randa might resort to intimidation, once it grew obvious that flattery wouldn’t produce what he wanted.

  Jacen’s first call raised the Duros military, as usual. The Duro Defense Force was a nervous bunch these days. Admiral Wuht’s comm team was on the job this morning. Negotiating the usual runaround took most of Jacen’s next hour. Randa thrust his huge head through the door three times, demanding progress reports.

  “Waiting for Admiral Dizzlewit,” Jacen murmured each time.

  Finally, Jacen talked himself far enough down the line to reach a shipping clerk who seemed willing to check records. Yes, the shuttle in question had arrived at Bburru City. CorDuro Shipping had taken charge of the transfer. A CorDuro pilot had taken off with it, bound for Urrdorf City—the smallest Duros orbital city.

  Stolen! “I know these routing checks are inconvenient for you,” Jacen said tightly. “You’ve done an incredible job, getting me this much. Many thanks.”

  He cut the connection and flicked his comlink. “Dad?”

  Af
ter several seconds, he got an answer. “Find it, Junior?”

  “The Duros diverted it.” Randa’s monstrous head poked through the door again. Jacen pushed his chair aside and beckoned the Hutt forward, still explaining. “Dad, I think this would justify spending the fuel to go up and talk to them.” Han had taken Thirty-two’s outdated I-7 Howlrunner shuttle up to Bburru twice that first week, talking to Admiral Wuht.

  “No,” Han said firmly. “They don’t want to talk. We’ll think of something. Borrow supplies from Gateway, maybe.”

  Jacen knew exactly what his dad meant when he said “borrow.”

  An unexpected transmission called Tsavong Lah away from Sunulok’s villip choir. In that chamber, signal villips fashioned optical fields that showed long arcs of space, sent by villips positioned for relay. Images from Nal Hutta showed the seeding of microbes that would reshape the scum-ridden, pestilent planet—and its ghastly moon, covered with technological monstrosities—back into something fertile and lovely. Some of the organisms, bred by master shapers, would digest Nar Shaddaa’s metal and transparisteel into dust that would settle into lower strata. Other microbes would break down both worlds’ duracrete into sand for new soil. Still other bacteria would attack organic matter, including the Hutts’ bloated corpses, to enrich that soil. Buried under natural terrain, the world and its moon would live again.

  There was also the matter of Mujmai Iinan, a lieutenant who had proposed taking Kubindi with half the usual number of coralskippers. Disgraced by the substantial evacuation of Kubindi, Iinan waited in a meditation chamber. In less than an hour, the gods would receive him.

  Tsavong Lah was not pleased to be called away, but the executor’s report was worth hearing. Seated in the coral-lined privacy chamber, he glared at the villip’s rendition of Nom Anor’s dumbfounded face. “Not one Jeedai, but three?”

  Nom Anor’s eyes widened even farther. It was unusual for a warmaster to repeat information. “Yes, Warmaster. Three have been spotted now.”

  The warmaster drew up to his formidable height, squaring his spiked shoulders. “Not by you.”