by Kathy Tyers
“I haven’t signed my reports, but if she wanted to find me, she could.” Jaina’s words stung, but Leia thought it would be best to let her vent. Senator Shesh had done very little toward easing supply problems.
“I don’t care,” Jaina said. “I don’t want special treatment. I want to help these people. What about the old ones? There’s no treatment that will cure their aches and pains. Before, at least they had their ways, their traditional meds. Now they’ve got nothing. Are you going to process all of them through first, too?”
“Yes,” Leia told her. “Immediately after the—”
“Shaved, Mother? The old people?”
“Mistress Jaina,” C-3PO butted in, “you will be pleased by our relatively fine medical facil—”
Leia felt warmth spread up her neck, toward her face. “Jaina, I’m trying to help them—and you.”
“Maybe,” Jaina said through her teeth, “I just don’t want help anymore. You showed me I had to learn to do without you. So I did.” She stalked away.
Leia gave chase. “You seem to have missed something,” she said. “I’ll be decontaminating out of here, the same as you, the same as anyone. Think about it.”
Jaina stared at the long coil of hair. “You’re kidding,” she said quietly. “Mother, if you … how long did it take to grow it that long?”
“That’s not even slightly important. You are. I suppose we won’t ever find it easy to live in the same place, again. We’re too much alike.”
Jaina’s grin showed teeth. “Bullheaded, obstinate, perfectionist … me? How could you accuse me of—”
“Heredity,” Leia answered. “And environment. You were doomed. At least you’ve got your father’s luck.”
Jaina’s smile faded. “Before I forget, Mom, you need to talk to Jacen. You know how well he reads people.”
“And?” Leia prompted, confused again.
“While we were looking for you, he got a look at your Senator Shesh. He had a real strong reaction. Negative.”
Leia thought back to her own dealings with Shesh, on Coruscant. Publicly, the senator had staunchly supported SELCORE—and the Jedi, despite their PR problems—and yet there’d been unexplained shortages, communication problems, defense shortfalls. If Leia wanted to suspect Senator Viqi Shesh of duplicity, it wouldn’t be hard.
“I’d better talk to him,” she said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“So.” Droma waggled his mustachios. “She could’ve married royalty, and she took you instead?”
Han backhanded his friend with a spoon full of synthetic stew, driving Droma backwards off his stool.
Jacen could barely stay awake. It had been an incredibly long day. Most of the Ryn were laying out their sleeping pads.
“Randa was the first one out of quarantine, after the sick list,” he interrupted.
Han stirred his stew and gave Droma the look Jacen and Jaina had always called “the stare.”
“And Leia’s people locked him up already.”
“Now what?” Droma asked.
“The usual. Tried to get outside the dome, just to look at the ships. Just looking,” Han repeated, as Droma clambered back onto his stool.
Droma eyed his own bowl and spoon. Jacen, suspecting the Ryn was calculating range and elevation, slid his stool back.
Jaina and Leia had processed through, too. Han had convinced Jaina he would need an outside liaison with the people who processed through, and someone to keep an eye on Randa. At that, Leia decided she’d cover her own job better outside than in here. She’d left Olmahk in quarantine, to assist with security.
Jacen took the news philosophically. He’d hoped his parents would spend a little more time together, after so long.
“Twenty-three Ryn followed Jaina out,” Han was saying. “Leia found them flight suits, so at least they’ll stay warm until the fuzz grows back. I thought they looked pretty good.”
“You would.” Droma bristled. “You’re getting nearsighted.”
“Your mouth looks just as big as ever.”
Now Jacen spotted the soft light in Han’s eyes and a self-satisfied grin. Maybe his parents had found a few moments alone. In his opinion, they’d both made convenient use of their circumstances to keep from reuniting. There was something splendid about the universe when your mother and father loved each other.
“Someone ought to go back over to Thirty-two,” he said, “and get our belongings.”
The Ryn smoothed his mustachios. “Possessions? They’re just something to lose. I’m more interested in whether there are still spaceworthy ships over there.”
“Yeah,” Han said. “Figure out how to get them here, while you’re at it. If we leave Gateway in a hurry, it won’t be by crawler.”
Jacen clenched his fists at the sight of Thirty-two’s ruins. Synthplas scraps drooped between struts that arched like the ribs of a beast picked clean by carrion crawlers. Through those ribs, from a vantage near the remains of the entry gate, Jacen could see rows of blue-roofed huts through what used to be the protective dome.
Gateway’s driver had donned a chem suit before bringing still-quarantined refugees on board. He shook his head. “Good thing you weren’t in there when it started to breach.” His voice came filtered through the transparent faceplate.
“Actually, we were,” Jacen muttered.
He stepped into the overalls of his own rebreather-equipped chem suit. Over them went an orange jacket, gloves attached. He worked his fingers down into the gloves, which didn’t hamper his touch when he attached his soft helmet and anchored the clasps. SELCORE must’ve gotten the suits from a military source, he reflected.
“Ready?” he asked his team.
Droma had slid into his orange suit. Mezza, older and bulkier, struggled to bring hers over her head. Six other suited figures moved toward the crawler’s hatch.
“Scanning for life-forms,” the driver’s assistant said. He worked a few controls. “Negative in this line of sight, but be careful.”
Jacen hooked his lightsaber on the outside of his suit. Mutant fefze beetles were the only creatures known to have survived the collapse of Duro’s ecosystems.
He led down the crawler’s ramp. Each pair of the others pushed a repulsor cart. Their mission was simple: gather as many belongings as possible and get back before dark. Jacen, nominally in charge, would help wherever he was needed, then bring the Falcon over to Gateway while Droma followed in Thirty-two’s battered I-7 Howlrunner.
He moved out with a pair of tall, thin Vors who had volunteered for a duty that was much more dangerous for them, with their twitchy lungs. They also had their pride—but they looked almost skeletal in orange chem suits, except for the arms, plumped unnaturally by bunching their leathery wings into the sleeves.
His insulated boots crunched on dead moths as he strode up the first lane. Evidently Duro’s atmosphere did kill them. They wouldn’t spread overland to other domes.
Grateful for one small blessing, he escorted the Vors to the first hut in their sector. They ducked inside while Jacen stood guard, vaguely uneasy. Within minutes, the Vors emerged carrying armloads of clothing and other belongings. Jacen helped bundle that load together, and then the Vors quietly pushed on to the next hut. Saving their breath, Jacen guessed.
They’d cleared several huts when Jacen’s comlink squealed. “Solo,” Mezza’s voice barked. “Get over here!”
He sprinted back up the lane, searching the Ryn section. Finally, he spotted a tethered repulsor cart. He shifted direction and headed toward it, gripping his lightsaber with his right hand so it wouldn’t bounce against his hipbone.
He plunged into the shelter. Two orange-suited forms had backed against its inside wall. Closer to Jacen was an insect he’d seen only in holos and nightmares. Fefze beetles, loosed on the planet’s surface during the Duros’ early days of space travel, had the odd quirk of both internal and external skeletons, so the mutant strain had been able to grow to enormous size. This one was well
over a meter long, with segmented antennae waving toward him, sniffing through the Duro-stench. Evidently it had taken this hut as a nest, because the crumpled wings of hundreds of white-eyes lay along one half-eaten cot. Under iridescent wing covers, the beetle’s soft abdomen was grossly distended. It had evidently gorged on white-eyes and the Ryn’s pitiful possessions. It was getting ready to lay eggs.
Unfortunately, Mezza and her partner had gotten past it before spotting it. They crouched against an interior wall, brandishing a cast-off shirt and a pair of leggings. Whenever the beetle’s antennae twitched, they flapped the clothing.
Jacen drew and ignited his lightsaber. The beetle turned, working the air with two of its armored, pincer-footed legs. Green, blue, and purple light reflected off the iridescent grooves of its body, and its mouthparts—easily wide enough to grip a Ryn leg—clicked ominously.
“Load your pile and get out,” Jacen said.
“Kill it!” Mezza’s voice hooted out of the nearer, bulkier chem suit.
Jacen didn’t turn his head. “Why? There are thousands of them, all over the surface—”
“Kill it,” she shrieked. “One beetle dead is a hundred less next season. It’s going to lay eggs.”
Jacen saw the sense in that, but the creature had no evil intent. It had found an excellent nesting spot, complete with food source, and he didn’t want to kill needlessly.
“Just load up the cart and move on,” he told Mezza. “I don’t think she’ll come after you.”
“She?” Mezza demanded. “So now it’s a she?”
“Do males lay eggs?”
“Solo!” the comlink in his pocket shrieked. “We have trouble!”
He fingered it on as he raised it. “On my way,” he said. Then, to Mezza, “Get your things and get out.”
He positioned himself between Mezza and the clicking beetle until she’d cleared the hut, then he backed out after her. The beetle didn’t follow.
Standing well out into the lane, he closed down his lightsaber and touched the comlink again. The cry, almost avian, had sounded like a Vor—or was that just the distortion of breath masks and fluctuating reception? “Where are you?”
“Over here. On a roof!” Grunting and whacking noises sounded over the link.
He scrambled up a nearby shelter and balanced on top.
About twenty meters away, two pudgy-armed orange figures—definitely Vors—stood on another blue roof, menaced from below by five iridescent beetles. Side by side, the orange figures flung someone else’s heirlooms at the creatures. The huge insects ducked, then came on again, scrabbling against the rough wall, mouthparts clicking and sliding against each other like hand-length saws.
Jacen leapt down, not liking to think what would happen if the beetles climbed up and holed the Vors’ chem suits. This time, he did have to kill. These creatures were attacking prey, not defending a nest.
Half stepping back into a fighting stance, he lit his lightsaber again. He’d never tried lightsaber fighting without using the Force. But how hard could it be? he asked himself, and he waded in Force-blind.
These beetles, swarming toward fresh food, weren’t about to back down. Jacen swung the lightsaber through the nearest, slicing it between abdomen and thorax. It collapsed.
Jacen swung for another one’s faceted eyes. Two more beetles pivoted and came for him, leaving the hut’s other side safe for the Vors.
“Back to the crawler,” Jacen shouted. “Signal the others—we’re leaving!”
The Vors scrambled down. One tried to grab their cart’s handles. Two beetles lunged for his loosely suited legs, snipping with their mouthparts. The Vor shrieked and ran after his partner.
Another half-dozen beetles clambered over the dead ones. Jacen swung the lightsaber wildly, keeping a circle clear around himself. Without drawing on the Force, his motions seemed jerky, disconnected—but he didn’t stop. Another swarm reached him.
On Yavin 4, he recalled, certain crushed or wounded insects gave off pheromones that called in more of their species. Whether or not this was the case here, something was drawing them toward him. Five more scuttled closer, up another lane.
Then an orange-suited form pelted into view.
“Get back,” Jacen shouted.
The form waved a vibroblade. “I’ll clear you a path.” That was Droma’s voice.
The Ryn came on, slicing for the beetles’ undersides, dancing out of the way of claws and mouthparts. They didn’t seem nearly as interested in Droma as they were in Jacen.
The thought hit them both at the same instant. As Jacen shouted, “They’re drawn to the light—” Droma’s voice echoed, and then finished, “—saber!”
Now what? Jacen sliced, backstepped, turned, and sliced again. The mindless creatures kept coming, waving their antennae. The comlink in his pocket whistled, then a voice said, “Solo, everyone but you and Droma has gotten to the crawler. Run for it!”
“Shut off that glow light, Solo,” Droma shouted. “You’re as crazy as your father.”
Shut down his lightsaber? Backstep. Swing. Beetles boiled over each other, some stopping to chew on the ones he’d killed. The biggest one yet, black antennae as thick as a Twi’lek’s lekku, sailed in over the others’ backs. Jacen sidestepped and sliced it in two, but as he did, something sharp closed on his left ankle.
“Get to the Howlrunner!” he shouted at Droma.
Droma vaulted an iridescent abdomen and landed beside Jacen. Breathing hard, now—harder than a Jedi should, for lightsaber work—Jacen jabbed at the beetle who’d seized his ankle. As it fell away, he spotted a tiny tear in his orange pants leg.
“Throw the lightsaber.” Droma crouched, brandishing his vibroblade. “I’ll cut us a way out. Then you can levitate it to you.”
“You know I’m trying not to use the Force.” Swing. Sidestep. Jab.
“Fine—then leave it here. But throw it, or I will!”
Jacen locked his lightsaber on, flicked his wrist, and let go. As the lightsaber flew, he had another flashback to his vision—of a lightsaber, sailing off into the distance.
“Go!” Droma grunted.
The pack of beetles scuttled off after the glimmering lightsaber. Jacen headed for the hydroponics tank, jumping over a beetle with every other step. Now the ominous Duro-scent reached his nostrils. They’d breached his suit, all right.
Droma slashed the antennae off one bug that got too close. They broke free of the swarm.
“This way.” Jacen led toward a long breach in the synthplas wall, instead of the gate. “I left the I-7 close to the Falcon.”
“Right behind you,” Droma called.
Jacen pulled out his comlink. “Crawler, this is Solo. Stick around till we can get airborne.”
Then he turned to look back. The mass of beetles boiled, an iridescent tumble of black antennae and wing covers. Somewhere in there was his lightsaber.
If he left it behind, that would be like leaving a leg or a hand—but if he used the Force to call it to his hand, he’d break his own resolve again. Either way, he would be miserable. He had to decide—soon—whether to abandon the Force altogether or plunge back into its flow. This constant weighing and evaluating endangered others.
He shut his eyes, willed the tiniest wisp of energy, and called the lightsaber. It rose out of the battling beetles in a low, shining arc to land solidly in his palm.
He shut it down with a sigh.
Droma stood staring at him. “Hurts to watch you,” he said.
“Because you know what I’m going through, I suppose,” Jacen answered. “If I use it, I’m miserable. If I don’t, I’m sunk.”
The Ryn nodded, then stepped out over the tattered remains of the dome. “Come on, kid. Move.”
Jacen processed through decontamination the next afternoon and reported to the admin building. According to Leia’s aide, Jaina was outdoors in Gateway’s ship lot, helping an inspection team. Leia sat at the big SELCORE desk, ignoring an undertone of conversation
between C-3PO and someone on the other end of a comlink—something about spiro grass, marshlands, and weather modification.
Leia straightened her white head wrap. “I’m glad you’re here, Jacen. A CorDuro freighter we just offloaded is missing a third of its cargo. Think you could get anywhere with CorDuro’s administration?”
Jacen gaped. “I haven’t got much experience with negotiating.”
Leia shook her head. “No, but you’re a Solo, and that ought to impress them. I haven’t got time to fly up to Bburru, and your dad says you’re trying to get more involved in non-Jedi activities. I can sympathize with that.” Her left cheek twitched. “More than you know.”
“I guess you probably can,” Jacen admitted. His mom would understand that not everyone who showed Jedi talent was destined to follow that path. She’d shown him that not every life had enough time for Jedi disciplines.
He’d tried to tell his dad about his vision, and how it confirmed his decision to hold back. Han had turned away, shaking his head, confused.
“Want to try something new?” Leia asked.
Jacen ran a hand over his strangely smooth head. “Droma just brought Thirty-two’s Howlrunner over. I could take it up to Bburru, see what I can do.”
“I’d appreciate that. Be careful, Jacen.”
“Always, Mom.”
“May the Force be with you—anyway.”
“You, too.”
Randa Besadii Diori propelled himself up Gateway’s main street, relieved to put the admin building—with its rough, dry detention cell and glaring lights—behind him. He’d tried to explain to Jedi Jaina Solo that he only wanted to evaluate Gateway’s ships, but she was as self-righteous as her brother.
So far, he’d evaded their mother.
He passed a pair of shaved-down Ryn, standing outside their tent wearing snug blue flight suits. Their vests and culottes hung limp over lumpy blue leggings.
