by Kathy Tyers
Even after he’d served his detention—which he had every intention of protesting, after the fact—he had been temporarily excluded from the communication area, the one place where he finally could hope for decent transmission equipment! He must contact Borga. He would find a way to get off this drab, impoverished world and rejoin her.
He wet his lips. He needed a pilot, of course. He still might convince the young Solo female. As his people said, Where persuasion fails, bribery prevails. His kajidic had wealth on worlds the Yuuzhan Vong hadn’t touched. The young Jedi must have a weakness—jewels, shimmersilk—better yet, a ship of her own.
Encouraged by his thoughts, he hurried up the sandy lane to the SELCORE shelter he’d been issued, a miserable blue tent in Gateway’s Tayana ruins district. He could hear the continual grinding of Gateway’s rock chewers underfoot.
Pausing inside his door flap, he caught an odd odor. He clenched his little hands, furious at the intrusion. He snuffled, following the scent to his sleeping mat. He had used his flimsy bedcovers as additional padding. Beneath them, he spotted an unfamiliar lump.
Reaching around with his tail, he flicked off the covers.
A leathery ball—not quite the size and shape of a human head—lay on the sleeping mat.
It was a Yuuzhan Vong villip, like the ones he’d seen on board the clustership. Borga had come through for him quickly.
Then he trembled from head to tail tip. Too quickly, actually. For this villip to show up in his dwelling so soon, the Yuuzhan Vong must have an agent inside the Gateway dome, masquerading as human. An agent who now knew where to find him.
Undaunted, Randa picked up the leathery creature and sank onto his rumpled mat. His plan, to lure key Yuuzhan Vong personnel here where the New Republic could trap them, still seemed ill-formed—but he had promised Borga he’d try to bargain. One Jedi for the world of Tatooine? The idea created an inner sensation he didn’t quite understand, since he’d never experienced it before: a twinge of vague pain, as if this might not be an appropriate use of someone who wouldn’t do this to him. Maybe this was what humans called guilt.
He dismissed it. His loyalty was to Borga. Even if Jacen wasn’t using the Force, he wouldn’t be taken easily.
Randa stroked the villip, then set it down, wondering who would answer. While he waited, he sealed his door flaps. Gateway was too bright for his taste. Thinking of Nal Hutta, and the painstaking planetary development that the Yuuzhan Vong were even now destroying, made his eyes feel thick and pleasantly moist.
Features appeared on the villip—a prominent brow ridge, splayed nubs of nose, cheeks with deep sacs under the eyes. “Randa Besadii Diori,” it said. “Finally, you report.”
Randa didn’t recognize the face’s fiercely chiseled features or the imperious baritone voice. He tipped his head respectfully toward the villip. “You have an advantage of knowledge on me, my lord.”
“I am Warmaster Tsavong Lah. Can you truly offer a Jedi?”
“I can,” he answered. Warmaster? His feelers had brought in a prize catch! Now, to lure him to Duro, for the New Republic to snatch. “His name is—”
“Useless Hutt,” the warmaster said, “your parent told me what you want in return. Know this. The Hutts betrayed us. Only exemplary service will win back our trust.”
“I know and respect your caution, Warmaster. I remember, though, your kinsman’s fascination with Wurth Skidder, on board the slave ship with which I traveled too briefly. I would be pleased to deliver this Jedi to you—to you personally, Warmaster. As for my request … what use to you is Tatooine? A forsaken world, barely able to sustain life—”
The villip’s rendition of the warmaster’s eyes looked like unfathomable black holes. “Why,” he demanded, “should I value your sense of honor enough to come personally to Duro?”
This, Randa admitted, was the gaping hole in his net. “You would honor me deeply,” he began, “and be honored in return—”
“You,” the warmaster said, “are not worthy of honor. Nevertheless, I will take this Jedi. Arrange to deliver him, and I will consider your request. Fail to deliver, or offer the slightest deceit, and I shall flay the hide from your body with my coufee.”
The villip softened, its features retracted, and Randa was left to wonder what he had done. The aliens’ agent here in Gateway could grab Jacen—or stab Randa in his sleep. Had he just made a terrible mistake?
Was there really any way he could hand Jacen over? Surely the young Jedi would come to his senses, sweep out his lightsaber, and fight back.
What Randa really needed, then, was an extra layer of defense. Duro was protected by one cruiser, a few snub-fighters, and the orbital cities’ planetary shields, which also protected whatever was immediately below them on the surface. If the New Republic brought an additional battle group closer to Duro, Randa would be defended—the bargain would have to be canceled—
He burst out of his shelter, headed back to the admin building. There, he found two communication techs—a human and a small, toothy Tynnan—talking to a half-size holo of a magnificent, dark-haired woman.
Elated by his good fortune, he muscled the furry Tynnan aside. “Senator Shesh,” he gasped, “I have discovered a traitor on Duro! The Yuuzhan Vong have planted an agent here, surely a scout for a future invasion. You must double our defenses, or all these refugees surely will die. You are in a position to send help from the military. Send it quickly!”
Senator Viqi Shesh turned her head slightly away. “Haven’t we spoken once before, sir?”
He bowed deeply. “I am Randa Besadii Diori, and—”
“You say you have unmasked a Yuuzhan Vong agent inside the Gateway dome?”
“Not unmasked,” he said boldly, “but discovered irrefutable evidence of his presence.”
“Then we thank you, Randa Besadii Diori. Deliver your evidence to Gateway’s administrator, Ambassador Organa Solo. I have just been apprised of her presence. Her security force will investigate.”
“I thank you for your time and attention, Senator. Here again are the people with whom you were conversing.” Randa swaggered out of the building. He would do just as the senator suggested: give Leia Organa Solo the villip and let her deal with it. His prompt action—realizing he’d made a mistake—had just saved him, and maybe Gateway itself, from a grim fate.
How clever he was.
Senator Viqi Shesh of Kuat shut down the holoprojector and reached for her maggot-textured villip.
This would not wait. Business, like diplomacy, required making concessions, and she had no qualms about reporting one young Hutt’s treachery.
She stroked the repulsive alien object, detaching her attention from her right hand by eyeing the curtained wall across from her private office’s comm unit. Her servants swept those curtains three times daily for listening devices. Sometimes, they neglected to straighten the folds when they finished. She needed to speak with them—again.
Viqi Shesh had no doubt that the Yuuzhan Vong would soon wrest this galaxy away from the New Republic, just as the New Republic had won it from the Empire. Rapid change created opportunities. There would be a thousand worlds to govern, and Kuat might be treated better if a Kuati held a high position under the Yuuzhan Vong governors. Certainly she would fare better.
The warmaster reacted predictably to her report. “But he has not identified anyone as this operative?”
“Not according to his report, sir.”
The villip’s alien face pulled its scalloped lips to one side in a sneer. “Our experience with Hutts has shown us nothing but treachery,” it said. “We will deal with Randa and his clan. You were correct in reporting him.”
Viqi bowed her head silently. For an instant, she considered mentioning the news about Centerpoint.
No. As soon as the Yuuzhan Vong knew Centerpoint was malfunctioning again, they might strike Coruscant. She had too much to accomplish before that day arrived.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was unus
ual for Kubaz to visit Bburru, the largest orbital city in the Duro system. But nowadays, Bburru’s docks were so crowded with offworld construction workers, shippers, and camp followers that the dark, short-trunked trio who arrived—trailed by a bronze astromech droid—attracted little attention in the off-loading area.
The Bburru Docking Authority agent eyed their credentials. According to the datapad, these weren’t typical refugees from Kubindi’s recent invasion. This family had holdings in the Core Worlds, and they were looking for trade. That explained the fine yacht they’d docked in Slip 18-L.
“Everrrything seems to be in order, gentles.” The tall Duros official momentarily mated their datapad with one of his own, programming a map from Port Duggan to CorDuro Shipping’s main office at Duggan Station.
Oddly, a minute after they had passed from sight, he had no memory of their arrival.
Mara found the hooded cloak, trunked mask, and goggles stifling, but she took advantage of the disguise to observe Duros’ reactions as Port Duggan’s long rideway carried them up the dockyard arm to Duggan Station. She caught red-eyed glares, lowered brows, and stares; and if Duros had noses, she didn’t doubt they would’ve wrinkled in distaste. Tresina Lobi had hinted that the Duros, like other species on worlds the Yuuzhan Vong hadn’t reached, resented the refugee influx. On Duro, that might be complicated by general nervousness about the political tensions at Corellia.
They’d arrived from Coruscant in Mara’s newly modified ship, a yacht Lando had picked up for a song—so he claimed—as soon as he realized how easily its broad aft cargo bay could be modified to carry an X-wing. Other hands had shaped this ship, too. Lando’s wife, Tendra, just back from an extended visit to her Saccorian kin, named it Jade Shadow after admiring its nonreflective gray hull. Talon Karrde and his connections had found the retractable laser cannons, camouflaged torp launchers, and shields to make Shadow almost a match for the Jade’s Fire that Mara had sacrificed at Nirauan.
Carrying Luke’s fighter in the bay, and escorted by Anakin in his own X-wing, she brought the Shadow over Duro’s south pole, using one of Ghent’s universal transponder codes. Groundside, they locked down Anakin’s X-wing, and R2-D2 rerouted Anakin’s shields to draw on a stack of spare power supplies, setting them to pull just enough power to protect the X-wing from Duro’s atmosphere. Then they all boarded Shadow again. Flying with Luke as copilot, Mara made a microjump outsystem, changed transponder codes, and they arrived at Duro as a well-heeled Kubaz family.
Drall and Selonian refugees, leaving Corellia while they still were considered first-class citizens, mingled with dockworkers of half a dozen other species retooling the civilian shipyards for military use. A horned Devaronian shouldered past three gray-skinned, long-faced Duros natives. A massive silver-tipped Wookiee plodded in the other direction. Mara caught a whiff of exotic perfume and spotted a comely Trianii swaggering up the corridor, drawing stares with her feline grace.
Mara still hadn’t felt anything unbalanced or unhealthy about the cluster of cells dividing, differentiating, digging ever more tightly into her body—none of the gut-wrenching signs of abnormality she’d felt in so many diseased cells. She was determined to take every day without ominous developments as a gift, and not worry how many more she might be given.
There’d been nightmares, though.
She eyed Anakin’s slightly slumped posture as he stood to one side of the rideway. She’d coached him in the characteristic Kubaz whirring accent, their cultured speaking style, and their gait, after nixing Luke’s idea of disguising themselves as Duros. It was always hard to pass for a native.
The rideway decanted them in a broad open area that their datapad labeled Duggan Station.
“Straight across,” Luke whirred at her, steering an elegant old luggage float.
At the other side of the open area, a Duros stood on a knee-high platform. She spoke through a powerful amplifier, addressing a crowd of fifty or sixty: almost exclusively Duros, but Mara spotted a Bith and two turquoise-skinned Sunesi.
Luke, walking point, halted and turned his face—what Mara could see of it—toward the speaker. “Listen to this,” he murmured, standing just a little closer than he usually did. Another woman might not have noticed, but Mara was exquisitely aware of her personal space.
The Duros on the platform spoke loudly, waving a knobby hand. “Independence is virrrtue,” she shouted. “In dangerrrous times, depending on an outside force for sustenance or defense could kill us all. If you cannot feed yourrr family group, you fail them. If you cannot protect yourrr own, you kill them. Arrre you murderers … or prrroviders?”
“Anakin,” Mara muttered, “go with Artoo, but stay in visual contact. Get a feel for the crowd. If you sense danger, get back over here.”
“Right,” he said. “Mom.”
Right in character.
“Symbiosis,” the Duros called, “has been prrreached since time immemorrrial. Has it made us frrree? Does it make us safe? They say we depend on each otherrr.” Now she took on a simpering tone. “That we need each otherrr. Hutt slime!”
Several Duros cheered.
“We, we must be strrrong. We, ourselves. Whoever needs help will fall. Each—one—of—us,” she cried, punctuating each word with a grunt, “must be strrrong enough to take what he wants. Or all will die. All!”
On Mara’s left side, a few Duros turned toward her, then moved aside, whispering. She didn’t catch any intent to attack, and her danger sense lay still, but she kept one hand near her lightsaber, under the dark cloak.
The speaker raised her arm, reaching toward a bank of lights that gave Duggan Station the appearance of yellowish daylight. “We are independent of the worrrld below.”
“Yes!” someone from the crowd cried.
“We are independent of the worrrlds at great distance.”
The answering “Yes!” picked up volume.
“Symbiosis,” she cried, “interrrdependence. They are for the weak. The weak must stand togetherrr to stand at all!”
The Duros cheered.
She crouched down, pressing her palms together. “Like the point of a duha spear, like the blade of a knife, strrrength lies where metal comes to a point. Where worrrlds stand alone, with no need to wait for other fleets to defend them, there is trrrue might. Each of us,” she concluded, sweeping an arm out over the crowd, “must be strrrong. Strong enough to take what she wants … and defend it!”
Loud cheers.
Mara backed up against Luke and turned her masked head slightly. “This kind of talk could finish what’s left of the New Republic.”
She caught just a shade of Force energy spinning around him, extended to protect her. Evidently he wasn’t trusting completely to their disguises, but taking a basic defensive stance, blurring the orator’s view of their faces.
“I’ve heard enough,” he said.
Anakin hadn’t gone far. R2-D2 couldn’t roll sideways in a crowd, so when Mara caught Anakin’s attention and flicked a gloved finger, he nodded and backed away from the podium in a straight line. R2-D2 rolled beside him, wearing a new coat of copper-hued glaze.
The avenue inbound from Duggan Station was lined with planters that served the obvious dual purpose of aesthetics and air-scrubbing. Most local traffic seemed to travel on one- or two-passenger hoverbikes or enclosed hoverpods.
They found an inexpensive hostel, where Luke took a two-room unit. It had three basic cot-over-storage units and a refresher. One wall was programmable to several flatscreen images, including—according to its instruction panel—an exterior view of Bburru City, hanging majestically in space over the dull-brown planet below; Coruscant’s night side, with or without an overlay of auroral displays; or shipping traffic entering and exiting hyperspace near Yag’Dhul, at the intersection of the Corellian Trade Spine and the Rimma Trade Route. Mara left it blank.
R2-D2 rolled straight to a data station and plugged himself in. Mara peeled out of her goggles, mask, gloves, and dark robe, emerg
ing in a comfortable flight suit.
By then, Anakin’s disguise lay strewn all over his cot. He sat down, stretching and flexing his fingers. “After all the New Republic has done for them, how could they think that way?”
“That’s just one troublemaker,” Mara said. “But sometimes, it only takes one. Remember Rhommamool, and that firebrand Nom Anor.”
“Fortunately,” Anakin said, “I didn’t meet him.”
For Mara, Rhommamool had been a second encounter. Serving as a minor diplomat’s bodyguard to festivities on Monor II, she’d endured Anor’s rhetoric until even the gentle native Sunesi couldn’t tolerate him. They’d asked him to leave.
“Anor fanned an intrasystem resentment into open warfare at Rhommamool. Got most of his own people killed … and himself, too. But one troublemaker can sometimes be reached.”
Luke nodded. “Reasoned with. I hope that’s what we’ve got here—”
R2-D2 bleeped urgently.
Luke paused halfway through pulling off one boot. “What is it, Artoo?”
Mara couldn’t follow the stream of toots and whistles.
Evidently Luke couldn’t either. “Hold on, hold on.” He pushed up off his cot and crossed to the readout over R2-D2’s data port. Mara felt a sudden, somber change in his mood.
“Nothing serious,” he told her, “everyone’s all right. But Han and Jacen’s dome just got evacuated into Leia’s. Some kind of infestation.”
“Jacen’s probably collecting again,” Anakin said.
“Not funny,” Mara muttered. “I don’t think Duro supports much life.”
Luke’s eyes unfocused for a moment. “They’re all fine,” he said. “And Jacen just arrived up here on Bburru.”
“Great,” Anakin muttered.
“Anakin,” Luke said softly, “Jacen has to find his own path. It’s part of hitting maturity. Sometimes that takes a while.”
Anakin sniffed. Mara wondered if she’d ever had a sibling, and if they would’ve gotten along.
“All right,” she said. “We’ll bump into him sooner or later. But for now, our priorities are to find Tresina’s missing apprentice and figure out Duro’s political situation. Number one’s probably dependent on number two.”
