The Crystal Star

by Vonda McIntyre

  “I woke you up. I probably saved your life.”

  “Who asked you to?” he said, his voice a low snarl.

  Taken aback, Leia paused to collect herself.

  I’m a diplomat, she thought. I can manage this.

  “I don’t mind telling you my name,” she said.

  She minded very much telling him her real name. She told him her false identity, the identity that owned Alderaan. It felt strange to call herself by her nickname from childhood.

  “I’m Lelila, and this is my companion Geyyahab.”

  She nodded toward Chewbacca, who gave her a quizzical look. She had chosen for him a name from Wookiee mythology, from a story the twins loved to hear. But the character was not entirely heroic. Leia wondered if Chewbacca was offended by her choice—or if it were religiously offensive, even blasphemous, for her to give him a mythological alias.

  I don’t know much about his people’s religion, Leia realized.

  The Firrerreo sneered. “I do not care to tell you my name,” he said. “But her name is Rillao.” The name sounded like a snarl, the information like an insult.

  Leia gestured toward the ceiling. “Please help me free her.”

  “She’s not my clan,” he said. “I owe her nothing. I owe you nothing.”

  “If I pay you, will you owe me?”

  “I have no use for money here.”

  “What will it lose you, to help me?”

  “Nothing,” he said. But he did not act.

  “What do you want?” Leia cried.

  “What are you?” he asked. “A pirate? Or an Imperial flunky sent to torment us?”

  “I’m neither,” she said. “Do I look like a stormtrooper? Did you see troopers when you came down here?”

  He regarded her suspiciously. “I want my freedom,” he said.

  “It’s yours,” she said instantly. “Please. Help us.”

  His eyes narrowed till they nearly closed, then abruptly he made a decision and bent over the console that had defeated Artoo-Detoo. He was familiar with its workings, and that made Leia uncomfortable. This cell in the depths of the ship had no purpose other than punishment and torture. Perhaps he was a collaborator. Perhaps the Empire had built the freighter with a prison cell so some of the passengers could wield power over others.

  He stood back from the controls and glanced at Leia with a smirk. When he looked over her shoulder, she followed his gaze.

  Rillao drifted slowly from the ceiling. The webworks stretched, then contracted, pulling away from her body, pulling out of her body. The ends of the silver strands were dark with her blood.

  Chewbacca’s growl was soft and low and angry and nearly inaudible. He caught Rillao gently. She did not move.

  “Let’s get her to—to my ship.” Leia almost gave herself away by revealing the name of Alderaan. It was too good a clue. She would have to give her ship an alias, too.

  Jaina flung herself into her study cubicle. She was sobbing too hard to see the display. Even if she wanted to pay attention to it. Which she did not. She wanted to be up in the canyon with Jacen. She wanted Lusa to come back.

  Jaina put her head down and cried.

  Vram stopped behind her. He jabbed at her shoulder. “Stop crying! Pay attention! Sit up straight!”

  Jaina twisted away from him. She made herself stop crying. She wiped her eyes angrily on her sleeve.

  “Lord Hethrir wants you to answer these questions,” he said. “Who was the greatest leader in our history?”

  “My mama, of course,” Jaina said.

  “You’re wrong! You’re so stupid. The Emperor was our greatest leader.”

  Jaina stared at him in horror.

  “Who’s going to restore the Empire?” Vram demanded.

  “No one!” Jaina cried.

  “You’re wrong! Lord Hethrir will!” Vram said. “The Empire Reborn!”

  “No!”

  Vram was hateful. Hethrir was hateful. They were all hateful. Jaina sobbed, crying for Lusa and for Jacen and for Anakin and Mr. Chamberlain’s wyrwulf and for Mama and Papa and Uncle Luke—not because she believed they were dead, she did not, they couldn’t be, but because they would be sad and worried and searching for her. And she cried for Winter and Mr. Threepio and Chewbacca and Artoo-Detoo. And she cried for herself.

  “You’re wrong!” Vram cried with glee. “You’re wrong! You have to go to bed without your dinner. And it goes on your record!”

  She was so hungry that she almost stopped crying, but she was so angry about Lusa that she could not.

  “You’re nasty!” she shouted. “How did you get to be so nasty?”

  Jaina kicked him in the shin.

  He yelled in pain. Another helper came running. They dragged Jaina out of her cubicle and toward her sleep cell. She screamed and kicked and wriggled but none of the other children even looked at her. They hunched down in their places and stared at their displays.

  Vram slammed the door of her cell, shutting her into the darkness.

  Jaina sat on the cold hard floor—it had not turned soft anywhere yet—and struggled to stop crying. She had to think, she had to figure out a way to escape or send a message.

  Hethrir’s promotion ceremony had scared her. She could practically still hear the Empire Youth shouting, “The Empire Reborn!”

  I have to let Mama know about the Empire Reborn, Jaina thought. Somehow. I have to let her know about Hethrir. He sounds like one of the evil tyrants Mama fought against, before I was even alive.

  Jaina wondered if the fight would have to happen all over again.

  She wiped away her furious tears.

  She took out her hidden multitool and held it in her hand. She opened it and felt her way to the door. A splinter scratched her finger. She had found the place where she had begun to drill toward the latch.

  While the multitool chipped slowly away at the hard wood, Jaina thought about how she might escape from Hethrir’s compound. After she escaped from her cell.

  Could I sneak past the dragon? It couldn’t see me when it was far away. If it was all the way at one side of the canyon fence, maybe it wouldn’t notice if I climbed the fence on the other side.

  Jaina really did not believe that would work. The dragon was almost as wide as the canyon mouth. Even if it was all the way at the other side, if it looked over its shoulder it would still see her.

  Maybe I could climb the canyon wall. But it’s pretty steep, and it’s pretty smooth, and I guess the Proctors would see me as soon as I got to the top …

  Maybe I could steal a spaceship, and program it for home—

  If she could escape and find Hethrir’s skiff.

  The trouble was, she did not know where she was, or where home was compared to where she was, or even where Munto Codru was. Maybe the ship would know.

  And maybe it wouldn’t.

  Maybe it would be better to try to send a message.

  If I can sneak out of here, somehow, Jaina thought, then maybe I can figure out where they send their messages from. Then I could sneak back in …

  She felt the wood where she had been drilling. She had made a very small and very shallow hole. The multitool was so hot she could barely hold it.

  She sighed. This was going to be hard. She wished she had Jacen to talk to. She wished she could reach past Hethrir’s control over her abilities. Then she could open the door, find Hethrir’s communications, whatever she wanted.

  Can I still do anything? she wondered. Anything at all?

  She imagined the molecules of air all around her. She imagined one molecule. She imagined it moving, faster and faster. She felt the molecule respond.

  Hethrir’s power did not react. She knew it was around her, she could feel its attention off in the distance. But it did not notice the tiny motion she created.

  She added another molecule, another, doubling and redoubling the number she affected. Soon a small handful of air vibrated with her energy. Its warmth took the chill from her cell.

/>   The swirl of air glowed red, then yellow, spreading light into the corners of Jaina’s cell.

  Jaina laughed with relief and joy.

  Chapter 6

  People from many worlds crowded around Han and his companions as they made their way toward the graceful gilt buildings. Han thought he saw the ghostling who had approached him in the welcome dome.

  The effect of calligraphy, of esoteric hieroglyphics, was magnified by the entry to the structure. An intricate design traced secrets in gold across the mirrored facade. The building’s wings curved around to form a sheltered, quiet courtyard. The visitors gathered just outside, then entered the silent space singly or in small groups.

  Xaverri calmly waited their turn. Han passed the time by trying to identify as many homeworlds as he could. After several dozen, there were still individuals left over whose origin he could not guess.

  He nudged Threepio. “Where do those folks over there come from?” He did not point; too many people in the Republic found pointing intolerably rude. He nodded toward a multihumped stack of mobile seaweed. “And is it a group, or one person?”

  “Why, a group, of course, sir. They are from the fourth world of Markbee’s Star, specifically, from—if I am not mistaken—Zeffliffl. That is to say, from the shallow seas of the smaller southern continent—”

  One of the leafy mounds produced a bulging bag, twisted one end, and squeezed liquid from the bag in an arching spray to splash itself and its companions. Some of the droplets rained down on Han. He stepped back, but it was only saltwater. The wet leaves of the Zeffliffl glistened blackly in the gold light of the building. A few leaves fluttered to the ground and lay twitching.

  “How about them?” He gestured toward a second group, half a dozen massive, low-to-the-ground ovoidal people with short, powerful legs and eyes on thick flexible stalks.

  “They are,” Threepio said.

  “Are what?”

  Threepio did not reply.

  “What?” Han asked.

  “I just told you, sir,” Threepio said. “Oh. I beg your pardon. The language exists at a frequency below the limits of your hearing. It is a function of the environment, which is extremely high gravity.”

  “They’re sick,” Luke said softly.

  “No, Master Luke,” Threepio said patiently, “they are speaking a language that human ears—”

  “I don’t mean them,” Luke said. “I mean—there’s somebody in almost every group who’s ill or injured.”

  Paying more attention to types of people he was familiar with, Han soon saw that Luke was right. The gathering took on a poignancy that he had not previously perceived. Here a family huddled together, protecting a child or parent or cross-cousin; there a clan group carried a stretcher that supported a moaning, palsied colleague.

  Han nodded at Luke, agreeing with his analysis.

  Luke doesn’t look so hot himself, Han thought. What’s happening to him? He never gets sick …

  “You will understand soon,” Xaverri said. Her expression was grim. “It is our turn.”

  She entered the courtyard. Han followed, with Luke at his side; Threepio brought up the rear.

  Silence surrounded them. The golden calligraphy on the front of the building glimmered against the mirrored sheen of the wall. The perspective changed as Han walked. The calligraphy moved and shifted and writhed, as if it were still being written.

  They were alone in the courtyard. The quiet was eerie. Han glanced over his shoulder, taken by the illusion that all the other people had disappeared. They had not; they remained where he had left them, crowded up to the entrance of the courtyard, waiting, speaking with quiet excitement among themselves. But their voices were inaudible.

  “Master Luke, I wonder, all things considered,” Threepio said, “shall I wait outside?”

  “If you prefer,” Xaverri said. “But I am accepted. There will be no danger to any of us.”

  “Danger!” Han said. “Wait just a minute. Who said anything about any danger?”

  “No one,” Xaverri said, amused. “I said there is no danger, if you follow my lead.”

  “But—”

  “I meant,” Threepio said, “that this does not appear to be a place likely to welcome … my kind.”

  “All forms of sentience are welcome here,” Xaverri said.

  “Even droids?”

  “Even droids.”

  “Ah,” Threepio said. “Somewhat unusual. Quite … enlightened.”

  They passed beneath an archway at the far end of the courtyard, and descended into bedlam.

  Inside, the awed gathering had transformed itself into wailing, begging supplicants. They roiled in an undisciplined crowd toward the back of the wide, low theater, where a high golden altar loomed above them.

  “Waru, help us! Waru, heal my child, heal my egg-sister, protect my hearth-friends from the curse laid upon them!”

  The pleas echoed in the chamber. Luke grabbed Han’s upper arm. His fingers dug painfully into Han’s biceps.

  “Hey, kid—”

  “Look,” Luke said urgently.

  The altar moved.

  Han tensed. “What—? Where is that from, Threepio?”

  “I confess, sir, that despite my knowledge of all the worlds of the New Republic, and many worlds outside it, I am unfamiliar with this being.”

  “That is Waru,” Xaverri said.

  The altar—the being—rose higher with a clenching contraction. It oriented itself toward them.

  “Approach me, Xaverri.”

  The voice was rich and full and clear and very, very soft. It filled the chamber with a whisper, insinuating itself past the pleading of the congregation. Xaverri stepped forward, and the crowd parted for her. Han followed without thinking; all he knew was that he did not want her to approach the strange being alone. He pulled himself free of Luke’s restraining hand.

  As Han neared the altar, he got a better look at Waru. It was a complex construct of chased gold shields. But beneath the shields, visible from certain angles and at certain movements of the being, lay a slab of raw, uncovered tissue, like chunks of meat. Fluid—blood?—glistened between the massive shields, oozed out, and fell by drops and fine streams onto the stage, where it coagulated into a crusted pool. The blood ran off the stage and formed stalactites that hung nearly to the floor of the auditorium.

  Xaverri stopped at the edge of the stage.

  “Thou art not alone, Xaverri,” Waru whispered.

  “I am not alone, Waru.”

  “Do they wish to be healed?” Waru sounded infinitely tired.

  “No, Waru. I have brought new students to study thy revelations, and learn thy truth, and appreciate thine existence. To give thee their devotion.”

  Thou? Han thought. Oh, fine, what is this, some obscure dialect—? Thou art, thou hast, thou wouldst … What did they just say? Thou wouldst hadst beenst …? No, that’s not right.

  Waru sighed. “I am very pleased. Only thou, Xaverri, hast ever offered me a gift. All others plead for my gifts—and I am glad to give them! But …”

  “Thy generosity is the marvel of Crseih Station,” Xaverri said.

  No one else responded to Waru’s complaint. It was as if the being’s whisper reached only Xaverri and her friends. Come to think of it, Han had not heard Waru speaking to anyone else. He had only heard Waru’s whisper when the being addressed Xaverri directly.

  Good trick, Han thought. It has to be a trick—doesn’t it? Unless … it’s what Luke is looking for.

  He glanced at Luke, but he could not tell whether this was the lost Jedi Luke sought. Luke’s expression was intent, but he revealed no joy.

  The golden plates riffled, as sensuous and sleek as an animal’s fur. They contracted, and the veins between them closed together. Fluid—Ichor, Han thought, this is the first time I’ve ever seen anything that should truly be called ichor—ran from beneath Waru’s massive base, seeping out to form a new, glistening layer around it. One droplet flowed along t
he spike of a stalactite, hung at the tip, simultaneously stretched and coagulated, and froze into a narrow, sharp edge at the end of the spike.

  As Waru’s armor contracted, the being rose even higher, craning toward them. Han searched in vain for obvious organs of sight, hearing, smell, or other sensation. But he could not even tell how Waru produced a voice.

  Maybe it perceives us as heat impressions, right on its skin, Han thought.

  Or maybe, he thought, it doesn’t perceive us at all. Maybe it isn’t even alive.

  “Thou hast brought me a new creature,” Waru said to Xaverri. “I have seen humans before—oh, yes, many humans, humans are so frail—but not this other being.” Waru leaned forward. The crusted ichor cracked and flaked away, revealing new edges of gold scales. “Who are you? What are you?”

  Xaverri drew See-Threepio forward. “This is my new acquaintance, Purple-Three. I thought perhaps thou hadst not met his like before.”

  “Welcome, Purple-Three,” Waru said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Waru,” Threepio said. “I am most honored to be permitted into your presence.”

  Han gave Threepio a lot of credit for picking up on Waru’s use of the standard you instead of the esoteric thou. The droid had noticed, as Han had not, that Waru used thou for Xaverri alone.

  I would have put my foot in it, Han thought. Probably offended the hell out of this critter. Why didn’t Xaverri tell us—?

  “My name is only Waru,” the enormous being said, its voice a purr. “Though some call me ‘teacher.’ It is the only honorific I esteem.”

  “Then I would be pleased to use it, if you will accept it from me,” Threepio said. “I have studied many subjects, in many places. I am an expert on human-cyborg relationships and am fluent in six million forms of communication. I am always grateful for a teacher willing to share esoteric knowledge.”

  Han found the heat and humidity oppressive. The coppery scent of Waru’s ichor prickled uncomfortably in his lungs. Beside him, Luke stared at the being with a fixed, hypnotized gaze.

  “Relax, kid.” Han’s voice was quiet, amused. “It’s only a—”

  Xaverri shot him a quick, furious warning glance. Luke turned slowly toward him with an icy, inhuman glare, then returned his attention to Waru. Startled, Han shut up, but he finished the comment to himself: This is a scam, he thought. It’s the most elaborate one I’ve seen in a while, but it’s still a scam. If Luke and Ben Kenobi are anything to judge by, no Jedi would behave like this—and if Waru represented the dark side, Luke would know it.