Star Wars - Black Fleet Crisis 1 - Before the Storm

by Michael P. Kube-Mcdowell

  Lobot could no more have explained how he listened to the stream of data that passed through his consciousness in the next few seconds than a blind man could describe fireworks, or a droid could describe giving birth. In the early days of his training, he had imagined himself creating a sieve to place in the torrent, a sieve that would catch only the information he sought.

  But that crude metaphor no longer sufficed. Now he immersed himself in the flow and somehow let himself see all of it, not just the pieces of a certain size or shape that fit his preconceptions. Even the flow was under his control—the depth, the speed, the temperature, the colors.

  But all metaphors ultimately failed. In the end, all he could say was that he sent out his thoughts, and brought back an answer.

  “Long, unique nonrandom sequences are found in most genetic codes,” said Lobot. “The code for a single distinctive molecule would suffice to meet your conditions.”

  “A genetic code? But it would only have four different pairs.”

  “Only if it were human. The number of code pairs varies from one planet's life-forms to another.”

  “How many pairs are there in the fragment?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “How many species have eighteen different molecular pairs in their genetic code?”

  Lobot lowered his eyes for a moment, searching for the answer. “There are six recorded species with eighteen-pair genetic structures. But genetic information is not available for all known species, or for unknown species.”

  “Do any of the six have a pitch-based language?”

  “One,” Lobot said. “The Qella. I am passing the genetic sample library marker to Artoo-Detoo for analysis.”

  Attoo's dome rotated left and right as the droid aligned its processors for the task. Lights flickered on and off across the function panel.

  After several seconds the droid responded with a single high-pitched beep.

  “What?” demanded Lando. “What is it?”

  “Master Lando, I believe the closest translation would be 'Bonanza.’ ”

  “ Lando's face broke into a broad grin. “It matches?”

  He clapped Lobot on the shoulder enthusiastically. “Son of a— You did it, old buddy!”

  Artoo burbled electronically.

  “What's he saying?” Lando demanded.

  “Artoo says that there is a ninety-nine-point-nine percent certainty that the signal from the ship is a representation of a segment of the genetic code of the Qella,” said lobot. “But the sequence ends in the middle—it's not complete.”

  “Of course not,” said Lando. “That's the answer they're expecting—the rest of the sequence. Is this thing a vocalization, or synthesized? Artoo, can you sing the next fragment?”

  Artoo's coo in response sounded almost sorrowful.

  “Master Lando, an R2 unit has only a simple vocabulator,” said Threepio. “But if I may offer my assistance-”

  “Offer away.”

  “Sir, in order to fulfill my primary function as a protocol droid, I was constructed with the capacity for polyharmony. I believe that I can sing the sequence, with Artoo's help.”

  “Give it a try.”

  For several seconds Threepio and Artoo huddled together and conversed silently over the droid transmission channel, passing information in binary far faster than Basic or Artoo's own idiosyncratic dialect would allow.

  Then Threepio straightened up, looked toward Lando, and cocked his head.

  Almost at once the room was filled by an eerie echo of the vagabond's hailing signal—distinctively different, but unmistakably the work of the same composer.

  “All right,” Lando said, punching the air with a fist. “That's the key. We're going in the front door. Threepio, Lobot, tell me all about the Qella. Maybe we can get an edge.”

  “Master Lando, for some reason I do not understand, I do not have any information on the language and customs of the Qella,” said Threepio.

  “But now that we know the owners of this vessel, we must return it to them. It would be a serious breach of etiquette to enter it without an invitation.”

  “Are you saying you'd refuse to send the response—”

  “One moment, Lando,” said Lobot. “I have been accessing all records available to me, and I believe I know the reason, Threepio. The best-established fact seems to be that the Qella have been extinct for more than one hundred fifty years.”

  “Extinct?” Lando said in surprise. “I guess we can't hang that one on the Emperor. What happened to them?”

  “According to a report in the Galactic Survey,” Lobot said, “their planet appeared to have been struck by several large asteroids, and its ecosystem destroyed.”

  “That doesn't make any sense,” said Lando frowning. “Any world that could build something like the vagabond should have been able to push an off-course asteroid or three out of the way.” He shook his head.

  “One mystery just leads to another.”

  Nodding, Lando said, “Perhaps the answers to all of them wait for us inside the Qella vessel.”

  Lando's expression darkened. “Except there isn't going to be any 'us.’ The colonel's only giving me one ticket for the boat, and I'm pretty sure it doesn't come with a front-row seat.”

  “I'm certain that if you tell him what we've discovered, he'll make room for all of us,” said Threepio. “It would be the reasonable thing to do.”

  “Hortek are only reasonable when they don't have the upper hand,” said Lando. “And he thinks he does.”

  He paced. The others waited.

  “You know, there's only one way we're going to know if this really is the key,” he said finally. “Otherwise, we might just be believing what we want to.”

  “I agree,” said Lobot.

  “And Pakkpekatt's going to want evidence. It's clear that, to him, we're just baggage he couldn't manage to dump. I wouldn't exactly say he's been cooperative.”

  “No,” said Lobot.

  Lando nodded slowly. “Threepio, Artoo, it's been a long day—or I suppose it's night by now. And tomorrow could be a longer one. I want you both to power down, recharge, and run your system optimizers. Set your reactivation clocks for thirteen hundred hours. That will give us plenty of time.”

  “Shouldn't we notify Colonel Pakkpekatt first, Master Lando?”

  “I'll take care of that,” Lando said, with a glance at Lobot's impassive face.

  “Very well, sir. Closing down.” The droid's eyes dimmed instantly.

  A moment later Artoo rolled over to the power port, hooked up to it, and echoed the acknowledgment before its displays also went dark.

  Lando slid easily back into a chair at the table and studied Lobot with one eyebrow raised questioningly.

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “It is our theory,” said Lobot. “It's right that we should take the risk.”

  “All right, then,” said Lando, leaning back in his chair. “In that case, you and I'd better get some rest, too. Tomorrow's gonna be an interesting day.”

  A few minutes before 1300 hours, Lando and Lobot slid into the cockpit couches aboard Lady Luck.

  “I figure we have twelve seconds minimum before they try to get a lock on us,” said Lando. “I intend to be inside no-man's-land by then. He's been so scared to even ping the ship that no one on that bridge is going to be in a hurry to point a tractor beam in that direction.”

  “That will require a very high rate of acceleration.”

  Lando nodded, his lips pressed tightly together.

  “Yeah, we just might end up blistering the paint on old Glorious. So it goes.”

  Lady Luck had been flying with her engines cold, a parasite on the side of the cruiser, for more than a month. Respecting that fact, Lando went through an unusually thorough system check in the minutes that remained, bringing the engines to a state of readiness just one step below going hot.

  At 1300 hours exactly, Lando thumbed the ship's com unit. “Threepio, are you the
re?”

  “Yes, Master Lando.”

  “How about Artoo?”

  “He reactivated on schedule,” said Threepio. “Sir, what did the colonel say when you told him our news?”

  “He wasn't exactly ready to hear it,” Lando said.

  “Do you remember the song from last night?”

  “Yes, of course, sir.”

  “Then both of you grab something to hold on to, and, Threepio—you get ready to sing.”

  The moment Lady Luck disengaged from the docking ring, alarms began to sound on the bridge of Glorious. In moments the yacht was roaring away from its mooring point and toward the vagabond, its fiery engine exhausts clearly visible from the bridge's forward viewports.

  “What in white blazes—” exclaimed Lieutenant Herone. “Sparks, where's the colonel?”

  “Down in Hangar Three, with Bijo and the foray team.”

  “Call him up here,” Herone said, and took a deep breath. “Lady Luck, this is the Glorious. I order you to come about and bring your vessel alongside. If you do not come about immediately, I will order the weapons master to disable your ship.”

  “You'd better think about that again, Lieutenant,” Lando answered breezily. “Blaster fire near the vagabond? Remember the Boldheart.

  Herone sighed. “General, what do you think you're doing out there?”

  “Research,” Lando said. “I'd make sure I was recording this if I were you.”

  “Turn your ship about, General. This is your last warning.”

  At that moment the bridge was filled with the sound of the vagabond's keening chorus.

  “Tracking! Range!” Herone called out.

  “Eleven klicks and closing fast.”

  “Get a tractor beam on that ship, and I mean now.”

  “Ready, now, Threepio,” said Lando, his face tight with anxiety.

  “Don't wait for me. Use every band you have. I'll pipe the standard channels out from here.”

  “Very well, Master Lando. I'm extremely glad the colonel agreed to let us test our own theory.”

  “He didn't give me a Word of argument,” Lando said. “Ready—here we go.”

  There was no more than a heartbeat's hesitation between the end of the vagabond's transmission and Threepio's taking up the song. Throttling the ship back sharply, Lando held his breath and waited, watching the seconds slip by on the bridge chronometer.

  “This is exciting,” Lobot said. “Thank you for inviting me.”

  “Dying's exciting, too, I hear,” Lando said, shaking his head. “You pick the strangest times—What's the status of the interdiction field?”

  “It's up.”

  Lando peered at his instruments. “Where's that tractor beam? They can't be this slow. What's happening?”

  Glancing sideways at a display, Lobot said, “There's a secondary shield up. The tractor beam has been deflected.”

  “What?” Lando demanded. “The vagabond is protecting us?”

  “Yes,” said Lobot. “That appears to be the case. We have been recognized. We have left the colonel's armada and joined the Qella.”

  Chapter 10

  In the wee hours of the morning of the Fifth Fleet's departure from Coruscant, a dark-blue bubble-topped Fleet speeder reached the entry gate at Admiral Ackbar's residence on Victory Lake. It slowed only briefly, then was waved through, following the drive up to the house.

  There was already a vehicle parked there, a sleek-winged Poranji orbital jumper—the smallest ground-to-orbit spacecraft licensed for use on Coruscant, and a favorite of kids with dreams of the stars. But the adult who emerged from the speeder was not beyond the appeal of such glittery attractions. Despite the hour and the weight on his shoulders, General Etahn A'baht paused to look over the Poranji jumper before turning toward the door.

  Light flooded the lawn briefly as Admiral Ackbar admitted the commander of the Fifth Fleet. The light also revealed A'baht's tired eyes and unhappy expression.

  “Ah, Etahn, come in,” said Ackbar, stepping aside to clear the way. “Thank you for coming. I know you're needed elsewhere, and I will not keep you long.”

  “I don't know why whatever business we have at this point couldn't have been conducted by holo comm,” A'baht grumbled. “I should have been at Eastpott two hours ago as it is.”

  “I am certain that the Fifth will not sail without you, General,” said Ackbar, guiding A'baht through the house. “And I think you will not begrudge the time.”

  “I wouldn't begrudge it if I had it. I could be on my way to the Intrepid right now. I should be.”

  “There is someone I want you to meet before you go,” Ackbar said, leading the way into a round-walled Inner room.

  “It's a curious hour for a social call,” said A'baht, following.

  “It would be,” agreed Ackbar as a third man rose from a wide, soft-cushioned chair and approached them. “Etahn, I want you to meet Hiram Drayson.”

  “Admiral Drayson, of Chandrila?” asked A'baht, caught uncertainly between a salute and taking the hand offered him in greeting.

  “Once upon a time,” said Drayson, smiling.

  “I know of you, sir. I did not know you were still on Coruscant.”

  “Let us dispense with 'sirs' and saluting,” said Ackbar. “This meeting is quite unofficial, so it might as well be informal.”

  “All right,” said A'baht. “What's this about?”

  “Etahn, Hiram is the director of Alpha Blue. Have you heard that name before?”

  “No.”

  “Good. You should not have, until now,” said Ackbar. “Hiram and Alpha Blue work within Fleet Intelligence, and beyond its reach. They have a charter which recognizes the ambiguities of war and politics, and inherit the jobs which require working outside the rules of polite society.”

  “Diplomatically put,” said Drayson, smiling pleasantly.

  “Hiram has some information for you,” Ackbar continued. “I would listen to him carefully. I myself have found it valuable to do so in the past—and to have his counsel, as well.” He nodded at Drayson.

  “And now I will say good night.”

  “Wait—where are you going?” asked A'baht.

  “This conversation is not meant for my ears,” said Ackbar. “I am going to the water column, to sleep. It is quite late, you know.”

  A'baht watched him leave the room, then turned to Drayson. “I have the curious feeling that being favored with an introduction to you is less an honor than a portent.”

  Drayson smiled. “It signifies that Ackbar trusts you implicitly, and that's no mean compliment. But I won't deny it—introductions to me seem to have a way of costing folks the blessings of a peaceful sleep.”

  “Just so. Well—what did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Your travel plans,” said Drayson. “Come, let's sit.”

  “I've been trying for months to establish some assets in the Koornacht Cluster,” said Drayson. “It hasn't been easy, even for me.” He smiled self-deprecatingly.

  “Traders will go to the fringes of the Cluster, but the deep Cluster worlds belonging to the League are another story. Apparently the Yevetha have a straightforward method of dealing with trespassers--they execute them on sight. And frankly, I find that to be reason for concern in its own right.”

  “They like their privacy.”

  “Perhaps a little too much,” said Drayson. “Which is consistent with the behavior of the viceroy here. The Yevetha stay in their ship, and the viceroy limits his outside contacts to a few hours every other day with Leia. I don't know if there are ten of them in there, or a thousand—”

  “You don't trust them, either.”

  “No, I don't,” said Drayson. “I'm certain that Nil Spaar has been lying to Leia. The viceroy is a player. I haven't quite figured out the game, and I can't tell how far beyond normal diplomatic posturing the lies go. But one thing I know for certain is that they've been learning about us faster than we've been learning about them. That's another
reason for concern.”

  “You think they've been studying us.”

  “They'd be fools if they weren't, and I don't think they're fools,” said Drayson. “That Yevethan spaceship has had access to the Republic hypernet and the planetary NCI channels since the second day it was here. And the viceroy has had unimpeded access to the Chief of State of the Republic. Meanwhile, I can't even confirm how many League worlds there are, or their names and locations. I've been shut out completely, and I'm not accustomed to that happening.”

  “Is that why you're having this conversation with me instead of with the princess?”

  “That's one reason,” said Drayson. “The other is that you're going out there with thirty warships, and she's not.”

  “Can you tell me anything about what I'm likely to find?”

  “Some. There are several worlds on the fringe of the Cluster which are inhabited by species other than the Yevetha,” said Drayson. “Along the border, there's a sizable colony of Kubaz, two small mining installations owned by the Morath, and a commune of H'kig cultists who apparently left Rishii over a doctrinal conflict. A little farther in, there's a nest of Corasgh established by the Empire and then abandoned, and a droid-run Imperial factory farm, likewise abandoned, which represents a free lunch for any cargomaster willing to risk the trip.”

  “The droids are still tending and harvesting crops?”

  “Yes. Put a ship down at the loading docks, and the droids fill the hold without even being asked!” said Drayson. “Now, all of those are new since the last general survey of that sector, and there could be more. Based on that survey, there are also at least five indigenous sentient species in the Cluster, none of which have achieved hyperspace travel. Some haven't even gotten off the ground.”

  “Not a very likely place for the Empire to put a key forward shipyard.”

  “Not with the Yevethan worlds nearby.”

  “Do you think they have the ships?”

  “It would have been unusually sloppy of the Empire to allow that to happen,” said Drayson. “But I don't rule it out.”