Refugee: Force Heretic II

by Sean Williams

  Malinza spat on the carpet at his feet.

  Harris simply smiled back at her, his eyes triumphant and gloating. “Spoken like a true rebel.” He faced his accomplice, then. “Salkeli, in position, please.”

  The Rodian ushered his three prisoners closer to the door, and Harris opened it with his thumbprint. Jaina, Malinza, and Vyram filed outside with the blaster pointed at their backs.

  “Where are you taking us?” Malinza asked.

  “Wait and see,” Harris said. “I guarantee you won’t be disappointed.”

  PART FOUR

  CONSECRATION

  “Disappointed?” The note of incredulity in Jag’s voice could barely hide his irritation. “Jaina is still missing and you think I might be disappointed that I’m not going to see the ceremony?”

  The voice of Twin Sun Three fell silent, her attempt at lightening the mood having fallen painfully flat.

  Jag clicked twice to remind his pilots not to clutter the airwaves, even as he chided himself for being snappy. He was concerned by Jaina’s continued absence, but at the same time he had to trust in Jaina’s ability to look after herself. Besides which, if anything terrible had happened to her, he was sure Leia would sense it. That Jaina hadn’t called for help yet through the Force suggested that she was at least still in control of her situation—whatever that might be. And until such a time as she did get in touch with anyone, he would just have to continue on as though everything were normal—and that meant concentrating on flying.

  He had taken a mixed flight out to patrol the edges of Selonia’s orbit, wary of any “unauthorized” activity while attention was focused below. Both P’w’eck and Bakuran contingents were quiet, the two big alien assault carriers, Errinung’ka and Firrinree, orbiting in quadrants diametrically opposed to the two local defenders, Defender and Sentinel. The latter had two full squadrons of P’w’eck fighter craft stationed at close quarters, plus two squat picket ships. If things were to turn nasty, for whatever reason, they could do a lot of damage while the Bakurans tried to get their balance. While Jag obviously hoped nothing untoward would happen, he had to think tactically.

  “Don’t just outguess your enemy,” his father had once said, “but outsee him, too. Always assume that he’s two steps ahead of the current play, and be three steps ahead yourself.”

  Jag took his clawcraft and his two wingmates in a wide arc around Selonia. The frigate basked in the light of Bakura’s sun, unmolested and apparently completely ignored by the forces surrounding it.

  He could sense games all around him, moving slowly toward their endplays. It irked him once again to be so far away from the action taking place below on Bakura’s surface. But if nothing came of it, and all his second-guessing proved unfounded, he wouldn’t be disappointed. A large part of him agreed with Leia that maybe, just maybe, this deal with the P’w’eck would turn out to be the best thing that had ever happened to Bakura …

  The voice of the comm operator on Selonia suddenly cut across his thoughts.

  “Launches detected!”

  “I’m on it,” he said, quickly swinging his clawcraft in the direction of the numerous vessels his sensors detected emerging from Sentinel’s launching bays. His wingmates were close behind him, following him in for a closer look.

  “Has Bakuran Defense Fleet advised us of the launches?” he asked. The number of ships leaving the cruiser was already up to twenty and still rising.

  “As far as they’re concerned, I don’t think they feel they have to,” came the reply. “But I’ll check with them anyway.”

  Jag was already close enough to pick out the types of craft emerging from the launching bays, but this only confused him. It was a mixed bag, consisting of Y- and X-wings from the Bakuran Defense Forces, along with an equal number of Ssi-ruuvi—P’w’eck, he reminded himself—Swarm-class droid fighters. They flew in elegant formation out of the bays and into orbit, peeling off in threes and fives, still divided more or less equally between both forces.

  “Apparently it’s an honor guard,” came back Selonia’s operator. “I’ve notified Captain Mayn.”

  Honor guard? It was plausible enough, he supposed. The ships were flying tightly together, and had obviously rehearsed their maneuvers well beforehand. That showed a degree of cooperation between the two forces—as well as trust.

  But it still troubled him. The number of ships was approaching fifty, far too many for the depleted Twin Suns to tackle on its own—especially if it was caught off guard.

  Be three steps ahead …

  “Do you think they’d mind if the Galactic Alliance joined them to show our respects, too?” he asked Selonia.

  “I’ll ask.”

  While he waited on a reply, on another channel he alerted the Twin Suns pilots on standby, telling them to kit up and launch as soon as possible.

  “We’re on our way,” Jocell said, adding dryly: “I don’t think any of us really expected this to be a slow day, did we?”

  Jag picked a flight of three ships, two of them droid fighters, and tailed them around the planet. The trio didn’t react to his presence, but a transmission from Selonia not long after confirmed that they’d been noticed.

  “They’re requesting we stay well clear,” came Captain Mayn over the open channel. “I informed them that we would happily comply, but that we would have to take the necessary steps to ensure our security.”

  Jag smiled tightly to himself. What Mayn was saying was that, short of Jag provoking an altercation, he had a free hand to do whatever he felt necessary.

  With this in mind, he continued to shadow the trio of fighters. The total number of ships in the “honor guard” had just reached an even hundred—and it was still climbing.

  We’re under attack!

  In an instant, Saba was awake and clambering to her feet. Disconcerted, she tried to get her bearings. Then she remembered: she’d been resting in a large chair on the ice barge’s opulent observation deck. She’d nodded off and fallen into a peaceful dream of being up on the slopes of the Listian Hills. The sky had been red and cloudy, the scent on the breeze relaxing, and she’d lain there among the warm rocks, listening to the restive growlings of her hatchmates nearby …

  Then Mara’s cry through the Force had snapped her back to reality, and she realized with some disappointment that the growling she’d heard in the dream was in fact the rasping of the barge’s many repulsors over the surface of the ice beneath them. With a grunt, she shook herself free of the dream and made her way over to where the others were standing.

  The barge was a shallow, oval-shaped vessel that skidded across the surface of glaciers and ice fields with more speed than grace. The three passenger decks bulged out of the top like an afterthought, ringed by the powerful generators and repulsors that kept it in the air. It possessed heavy shields that kept the icy wind at bay, but the howling was still audible as a thin, far-off Ixll-like wail. There were four weapons emplacements around the curved edge of the barge, and they currently pointed at something flickering in and out of sight through dense snow spray off to the starboard side.

  “There are two more behind us,” Soontir Fel said. One thick finger stabbed at a display. Ten swift targets surrounded the barge. Software identified the objects as smaller than a snowspeeder, but just as heavily armed and shielded. They looked like fat coins tipped on their sides, ripping edge-first through the air. “Single-person fliers, I imagine, given the speed they’re moving.”

  A warning shot on the port side bounced off the barge’s shields and into a snowbank. Steam exploded from the point of impact, sending a white cloud high into the air.

  “Pirates?” Master Skywalker asked.

  “Possibly.” Fel rocked the barge in the direction of the snow-flier, forcing it to swerve away.

  “Shouldn’t we try to contact the spaceport to let them know what’s happening?” Mara asked.

  “Already tried,” Fel said, shifting the barge suddenly to starboard. A loud thump sounded as the
barge’s shields connected with one of the fliers. “But we’re being jammed.”

  “If they’re not pirates, could they be enemies of yours?” Stalgis asked.

  “Sure, but which ones?” Fel grunted. “Whoever they are, we can’t outrun or outshoot them. Our one advantage is the shield, which I’m fairly certain they can’t take out. Unless they bring in something bigger, we should be safe in here.”

  Syal Antilles put a hand on his shoulder. “When we reach the spaceport, security will drive them away.”

  A nearby explosion rocked the ice barge from nose to stern. Fragments of ice ricocheted off the barge’s shield and swept into its wake. Another explosion cracked the ice ahead of them, sending spreading fingers across the endless white plain. Fel banked to avoid the instability.

  When he tried to return to his original course, more fire from the snow-fliers forced him back.

  “That’s if we can make it there,” he belatedly responded to Syal’s comment.

  “They’re trying to force us off course,” Mara said.

  “I think you’re right,” Fel growled. “If it was just me, I’d take my chances over those crevasses. But—” He glanced at Syal, standing behind him with her hand still on his shoulder. He shook his head. “I’m not prepared to take that risk right now.”

  “I’m sorry,” Luke said. “It’s us they want.”

  “Don’t be too sure. I’m not popular with some of the syndics because I want to change their ways. All it would take is for one of them to decide to make a move while I’m distracted—”

  Another explosion rocked the barge, forcing it to turn farther starboard.

  “Either way,” Mara said, “we’re all in this together right now.”

  “Maybe if I give myself up to them, they’ll leave the rest of you alone,” Fel said.

  “No!” Syal responded instantly. “I won’t let you do that!”

  Luke agreed. “It would be a pointless sacrifice. They won’t leave any witnesses. You know that. In fact, if anything they’ll use us as scapegoats. What could be more believable than a spat between old enemies—especially if the accused are killed resisting capture?”

  Fel acquiesced with a nod. “So what do you suggest?”

  “There’s clearly no point running, and we can’t beat them with brute force.” Luke’s gaze wandered around him as he thought for a moment. “I suggest we stop trying altogether.”

  “I thought you just said we shouldn’t give them what they want,” Syal said.

  “I did.”

  “So what are you saying?” pressed the woman.

  Master Skywalker smiled. “I’m saying we should maybe give them a little more than they’re expecting.”

  Leia followed an usher to their seats, accompanied by Han, C-3PO, and her two Noghri bodyguards. The stadium was enormous, practically a giant crater lined with stalls, with the more comfortable booths higher up, affording the more privileged guests a better view of the proceedings that would soon be taking place in the stadium’s center. The delegation from the Galactic Alliance was, of course, among those privileged guests. They had reserved seating to the right of Prime Minister Cundertol’s stand, where he would be surrounded by senior Senators atop a large podium that jutted out from the ring of seats. The day was warm; floating sunshades circulated lazily above the crowd, propelled by the ever-present repulsors. Among the crowd, she made out signs and banners, although she couldn’t quite make out exactly what they were saying. She guessed that they’d belong to both protestors and supporters of the Keeramak and its P’w’eck revolutionaries. This was a big day for Bakura, and a lot hung in the balance.

  Nothing much was happening just yet, though. The Prime Minister had still to appear and, after the early-morning meeting, he would no doubt be avoiding the Galactic Alliance when he did. Fifty P’w’eck soldiers maintained a perfect ring around the area on which the ceremony was to take place, well away from the nearest seats in the center of the stadium.

  Han’s hand found hers and gave it a tight squeeze. Warmth flooded through her, reminding her of why she loved him. Even in difficult times, when events threatened to overtake everything, he was always there for her. Flashes of irritation hid a depth of emotion that surprised even him, sometimes, and of which she was always grateful to be the recipient.

  “Do you think the rain’s going to hold off?” he asked.

  She followed his gaze. Dense clouds were building on the western horizon, promising a tropical storm.

  “If it doesn’t,” she said, “then I guess we’re going to get wet.”

  “Great. That’s really going to add insult to injury.”

  A fanfare sounded as they took their seats, announcing the formal arrival of the Bakuran and P’w’eck leaders. Prime Minister Cundertol, dressed in a magnificent purple robe, and the Keeramak led a large group of human, Kurtzen, and P’w’eck officials in a cleared path from the base of the stadium to the central ring. There, to the stirring sound of the Bakuran anthem, they turned to address the crowd and, symbolically, Bakura itself.

  “My people,” Cundertol began, his voice magnified a thousandfold by speakers floating high above the stadium, “welcome to you all on this magnificent occasion. With our new allies, the P’w’eck, we join together to usher in a new era of prosperity and peace. As neighbors and friends, we will embrace the universal truths that bind together all cultures. Today, Bakura achieves its destiny, free from fear of old enemies and working with new allies to build a common future.”

  The crowd responded with equal parts cheers and boos as he stepped back to allow the Keeramak to speak. The mutant Ssi-ruu looked radiant in a shining silver harness trailing multicolored ribbons and tiny bells that jangled delicately with each movement. Its scales glinted in the weakened morning light, making it hard to tell where its outfit stopped and its skin began. Not even the growing cloud cover could dim its unique beauty.

  The powerful tones that issued from its throat boomed deafeningly across the stadium.

  “People of Bakura,” came the translation when it had finished its address, “I am proud to be here as the leader of a liberated people. The P’w’eck species, no longer bound to an oppressive regime rooted in cruelty and bloodshed, joins with you in spiritual communion as our two great nations create a bond that will run much deeper than mere friendship. With the signing of the treaty, we will be one, our fates forever linked!”

  The response from the crowd was as mixed as it had been for Cundertol, but it didn’t seem to faze either leader. They bowed to one another, then the Prime Minister and his contingent made their way back through the crowd to their seats. As Leia had guessed, he acknowledged her and Han with only a formal nod.

  Han muttered something to the effect that he wouldn’t trade a bootful of mynock droppings for Cundertol on a good day. Leia shushed him. There was no sign of the Deputy Prime Minister—an absence no one had mentioned, but which she found interesting.

  There was no time to ponder it, however, as the ceremony was immediately under way. P’w’eck priests bedecked with streamers began warbling some monotonous chant as the Keeramak prowled the edges of the cleared space, scattering glinting shards in a perfect circle around the alien contingent. Every few seconds, in counterpoint to the chanting, the Keeramak would raise its head and intone a phrase in its own tongue. This time there was no public interpreter to explain what was being said.

  “Can you translate this?” Leia whispered to C-3PO.

  “Only in part, Mistress. The dialect is not the same in which the P’w’eck converse. It appears to be an ancient, ritual tongue, perhaps preserved for—”

  “Spare us the details, Goldenrod,” Han said in an irritable undertone, “and just get to the point, will you?”

  “As you wish, sir. The Keeramak is addressing the life spirit of the galaxy, beseeching it to hear him and grant his wishes. ‘The golden light of this morning is yours,’ it is saying. ‘The blue-tinted skies and white clouds are yours. Where lea
ves are green and flowers bloom in many colors, you are there. Where children grow strong in limb and heart, you are there.’ ”

  “Very poetic,” Han muttered. “How much more of this is there?”

  “The ceremony is scheduled to last one hour, sir.”

  “That’s just great.” Han stretched his legs in front of him and locked his hands behind his head. “Wake me when it’s over, will you, Leia?”

  The floating van pulled up outside an unguarded entrance to the stadium. Goure, at the controls of the aircar following the van, drove past, rounded a corner, and came to a halt. Tahiri was the first to climb out, running back to the corner. Goure was close behind. Once there, the two of them cautiously peered around just in time to see Blaine Harris lead Jaina, Malinza Thanas, and two others into the stadium.

  “So much for security,” Tahiri muttered over the sound of chanting coming from speakers within the stadium. “There’s no one at the gates. They just walked right in!”

  “I suspect it was arranged that way.” The Ryn’s tail brushed rhythmically against her legs. “And if we’re quick enough, we might be able to take advantage of the situation, too.”

  Together they approached the entrance, their pace hurried but wary, aware that at any moment alarms might start to ring out. In the end, they managed to reach the gateway without incident and slip inside undetected. The rumble of the crowd within wrapped around them like a warm and comforting embrace. Whatever was taking place inside the stadium, Tahiri thought, it certainly sounded impressive.

  “Can you sense your friend?” Goure asked.

  Jaina’s mind had been shining like a beacon since well before she’d left Blaine Harris’s office, just minutes after Tahiri and Goure had arrived. While she and the Ryn had been trying to convince a security guard to let them in to see the Deputy Prime Minister, Tahiri had detected that Jaina was on the move. Retreating from the ministerial offices, Tahiri and Goure had found a droid interface, via which the Ryn had been able to determine from security cam images that Harris was moving with Jaina. Although they had no idea of where exactly the Deputy Prime Minister was taking Jaina, they’d set out in pursuit, with Tahiri beginning to despair of being able to reach Harris in time to stop the ceremony. That they had ended up at the stadium where the ceremony itself was taking place was indeed a stroke of luck. Perhaps, she thought, the Deputy Prime Minister had the same idea they had, and was wanting to stop the ceremony before Cundertol’s plan—whatever it was—came into effect.