small house. Dark vines hung down from it, ravelly clouds of nisemia thread
blossoming from them like tiny clouds.
They were close to the lights of Ruby Gulch now and the crops that supported
the town were everywhere in evidence, stunted bott and smoot making a dark
patchwork of vegetation across the coarse, thin soil of the Oldtimer farms,
and spiky towers of branswed and topato protecting the more fragile,
higher-yielding plants of the Newcomers from whatever blights and diseases
might inhabit the soil. The antigrav balls worked better still but, Luke
suspected, were expensive. All the balls rode high, their tethers extended
with the dropping of the wind.
"The rest of his family are decent folk, though. His cousin Bool-drum's got
the biggest library in Hweg Shul, bigger than Master Ash-gad's, even. The
offer's still open, to stay and work at my place awhile."
Luke shook his head. "Thank you. If Mistress Darm can help me with finding a
friend who might have come in through Hweg Shul, I'll be on my way."
"As you please." She nodded toward the two clusters of lights that marked
the town, the tidy lines of the Newcomer dwellings set high on buttonwood
pilings, and the dimmer, lower clumps of brightness that showed where the
Oldtimers had their humbler abodes. "I got stew and beer back at the house,
unless the pair of you want to go on to the Flowering Bott Pub with the rest
of those louts and grouse about how this place would be paradise if only we
could get trade in. It ain't never going to be paradise, you know, no matter
what Seti Ashgad works out with whomever he made such a big deal of getting
to talk with him."
She glanced across at Luke again. "No place ever is, if you're not restful
in your heart."
She swung her bike in a long loop, heading toward the high-standing Newcomer
houses with their bright lamps.
She was right, of course, thought Luke. But he doubted her opinion was that
of the majority of Newcomers, nor should it be. They had a right to live in
comfort, to have their children grow up with proper medical attention, to
avoid the grinding, horrible labor of primitive agriculture and stagnant
economy.
They were a minority on the planet, the majority of whose population did not
want their world to become part of the Republic. Nothing Seti Ashgad said to
the Republic's representatives would alter that.
But while their speeders were tinkered together from scrap and their
clothing consisted of makeshifts and hand-me-downs, somebody, Luke noticed,
had thought it worth his while to provide every single one of those
Newcomers with the very latest in blasters, rifles, and ion cannons.
RESPOND AT ONCE
INCOMING 77539 - CCNP-XTTN-5057943,QQ7 to RRNP-XXY79 SCRAMBLE CODE 9 RT.
HON. EXLCY LEIA ORGANA SOLO EXTREMELY URGENT RESPOND AT ONCE
INCOMING 77601 CCNP-XTTN-5057943,QQ7 to RRNP-XXY79 SCRAMBLE CODE 9 RT.
HON. EXLCY LEIA ORGANA SOLO EXTREMELY URGENT RESPOND AT ONCE
INCOMING - 77610 - CCNP XTTN-5057943,QQ7 to RRNP-XXY79 SCRAMBLE CODE 9 RT.
HON. EXLCY LEIA ORGANA SOLO CRITICAL IMMEDIATE
RESPONSE IMPERATIVE
"Son of a . . "Han Solo tapped back to the beginning of the message queue
and scanned it again. Twelve scramble 9s. He punched
into the first of them, though he knew the comm screen would give him
nothing but gibberish, and he was right.
"Where's Goldenrod when you need him?"
At the far end of the terrace, Chewbacca groaned a question.
"Nothing." Solo paged through the queue again, as if he thought a message
would manifest itself saying, DON'T WORRY ABOUT A THING, WE'RE 50 HOURS LATE
BECAUSE THE ENTIRE DIPLOMATIC MISSION just STOPPED OFF ON CYBLOC XI1 SO I
COULD BUY MYSELF A PAIR OF SHOES. HOME SOON. LOVE, you.
In my dreams, thought Han.
He glanced at the chronometer. It was a few hours after noon, the bright,
misty daylight of the resort moon Hesperidium already losing its strength.
Above the dark-leaved trees with their neon-bright clusters of gold and
scarlet fruit, the sky was fading to its characteristic rosy lavender, the
dark edges pricked already by the more prominent stars.
There was no possible way he could continue to deceive himself.
Even taking into account the worst imaginable outcome of the conference with
this Ashgad character, even taking into account an emergency detour to
Coruscant, even taking into account an unscheduled Council session and a
harangue by Councillor Q-Varx of the Rationalist sympathies and
inexhaustible rhetoric--and why wouldn't she have at least sent a message to
that effect.--Leia was late.
Very, very late.
Chewbacca hauled himself out of the terrace pool and shook, spattering water
in all directions. Behind him among the realistically engineered rocks,
Winter glided fishlike with the giggling twins in the mild water while
Anakin patted solemnly all around the pinkly glowing field of his
confinement bubble. laina had lately become fascinated with knotting and
braiding, and the long leathering of the Wookiee's mane and arms bore random
macrames of her efforts. Dripping, Chewbacca padded to Han's side. He
grovled another query, his voice low, for the twins understood Wookiee
almost as fluently as did their father.
"I can't even do that," replied Han softly. "That was part of the cover.
She's supposed to be here with us, not in the middle of the Meridian sector
meeting with a guy who isn't even the elected representative of his planet."
Chewie asked something else, tilting his great head, blue eyes glittering
worriedly under the overhang of his brow.
"What would Ackbar be able to tell me?" Han spread his hands. "If he knew
anything he'd have contacted me already. With a leak someplace in the
Council, and the Rationalists and the Rights of Sentience Party ready to
split the Council in half, he can't go through regular channels any more
than we can."
The Wookiee rumbled deep in his chest.
"I know." Han closed his fist, brought it down with surprising
restraint--softly, a slow-motion blow--on the thick glassite of the tabletop
beside which he stood.
The small villa that had housed a succession of the Emperor Palpatine's
concubines--one of several retained by the government of the New Republic to
shelter diplomats it wanted to impress--had been thoroughly swept for
listening devices before Leia and her family went to stay there for an
ostensible vacation on what was arguably the most beautiful moon of the
Coruscant system, but Han still felt easier talking on the terrace. The
gurgle of the fountains among mossy stones and the soft singing of the
warbleflowers, would have baffled even a long-range directional listening
device.
"She should have listened to Callista," he said. "She should have listened."
In his heart, of course, he knew that Leia couldn't have heeded the warning.
The Rationalist Party had spent too many months setting up the secret
meeting with Ashgad--and had too much influence both in the New Republic and
in the various fragments of the old Empire--f
or the whole matter to be
jettisoned at the last minute on the strength of an anonymous note. Q-Varx,
the Calamari Senator who headed up the party on that watery planet, had
pointed out that, on the one hand, the case of the Newcomer minority on Nam
Chorios could very well turn into a test case for the whole issue of
planetary self-determination and, on the other, though Moff Getelles of
Antemeridian was in no position militarily to go against the Republic fleet
in the Meridian sector, it was too much to hope that he would not find some
way of turning disaffection on that world to his advantage.
That was the problem, reflected Han, with power.
Even before he'd come into contact with actual pow'er, he'd concluded that
people who wanted to rule the galaxy--or even some weedpatch township on
Duroon--were idiots. As Lando Calrissian had discovered on Bespin, power
tied you down. You could no longer follow your instincts or act on the spur
of the moment All Leia could do, when Callista's message had reached her,
was include her Noghri bodyguard in the party and run the risk of the
hideous scandal that would result if they were discovered. Every precaution
that could be taken had already been taken.
She should have run. Han touched the keypad again, and watched the long
parade of scramble 9s--there were fifteen of them now--scroll past.
The face of Luke's beloved--the soft oval contours, the strong chin and
full, decisive lips, the rain-colored eyes that were at once so old and so
innocent--returned to his mind. The light, husky alto voice that was like a
teenage boy's and the gawky grace of her long-boned body.
She'd disappeared almost a year ago. She knew Luke would go after her,
thought Han. She wouldn't resurface lightly.
All that, Leia had known.
And had gotten on the Borealis shuttle anyway.
It was a kind of courage Han frankly wasn't sure he possessed.
He said again, out loud this time, "She should have run."
The screen blinked again. Another scramble 9. From Coruscant, this time, a
long block of text, in the purple lettering that meant very, very urgent. At
the same time a green light went up over the fancifully carved, moss-padded
stone doorway that led from the terrace to the house, and in what looked
like an antique stone niche a decorative statue revolved to admit a round
TT-SL droid on the end of its jointed limb.
The bronze lid blinked as the blue glass optical adjusted to read who was on
the terrace. Then a very pleasant voice announced, "Two visitors in the
vestibule, Captain Solo. They have declined to present credentials.
Would you like them to be admitted or would you prefer an observation
first?"
"Admit 'em." Han hated spying on his guests. If they came out the door
shooting, he and Chewie could probably deal with the situation.
"It will be my pleasure."
Chewie grumbled something and shook his mane. He disliked vestibule
observation as much as Han did, and disliked tattletale droids, if possible,
even more. Han laughed, and agreed, "Yeah, can't you just see all his little
diodes sparkling with sheer delight?"
The laughter wiped from his face a moment later as the automatic door slid
quietly back into its quasi-stone slot, and he saw who his visitor was.
He had a bad feeling about all this.
"Well, well." The door of the airlock slipped open. "What have we got here?"
See-Threepio, who had advanced with hands extended in near-ecstatic welcome,
pulled up short at the question. "As I explained over the viewscreen," he
reiterated, "this is a scout vessel detached from a .
. a major disaster, and we are on our way to the fleet base at Cybloc XII."
As he spoke he was analyzing the broad-shouldered, fair-haired man with the
scar on his lip who stood in the doorway, the man who, half an hour
previously, had identified himself on the viewscreen as Captain Bortrek of
the Pure Sabacc.
"Our pilot is unfortunately deceased . . ." He followed Captain Bortrek down
the corridor to the bridge, the young man swaggering ahead, looking around
him thoughtfully and whistling a little through his teeth.
"He the only crew?" Bortrek paused in the doorway of the tiny lab, where
Yeoman Marcopius lay cramped into the stasis box.
"Of course. Had there been anyone else to navigate us into the Durren roads,
we could have . . ."
"What'd he die of? Anything catching?"
"I believe so, yes, sir, but the stasis box is certified for full-spectrum
biological security." Though scrupulously programmed to have no personal
opinions about humans whatsoever, Threepio could not help comparing this
young man to Captain Solo as he had been when Threepio and Artoo had first
encountered him in company with Master
Luke. This man seemed to have a far more casual attitude about things,
however, and to walk with more of a swagger, aside from dressing in a
fashion that Threepio recognized as both flashy and not in the best of
taste. "Eighty percent of the crew had perished by the time we were able to
.... Here, sir, what are you doing?"
"What's it look like I'm doing?" demanded Captain Bortrek irritably, pausing
in the midst of ripping the stasis box's connectors free of the walls.
"Gimme a hand getting this to the other airlock, Goldie--over there, you
stupid hunk of junk! Antigray lifters!"
Threepio automatically filled in--as he was programmed to do--the context
and gesture to mean, Bring me those antigrav hikers under the cabinet. He
could not but compare the man's tone to Master Luke's--and Her
Excellency's--invariable use of polite nonessential grammatical elements
such as Please and Thank you--not that any protocol droid worthy of his
battery packs would take offense at being referred to as a hunk of junk or
even by the patently untrue epithet stupid. Threepio knew quite well that he
was not stupid.
But it was contrary to his programming to correct the man's deeply
inaccurate estimate of his mental capacity, as it would have been for him to
object to Bortrek's manhandling of the stasis box onto the antigrav lifters
and shoving it out into the corridor with the patent intention of
dispatching Yeoman Marcopius's mortal remains into the outer vacuum, box and
all. Captain Bortrek was a human.
Thus Threepio kept his reflections to himself, as he assisted the captain in
maneuvering the detached box into the smaller, secondary airlock. Marcopius
had been a loyal retainer of Her Excellency's, a good pilot, and, as far as
Threepio was capable of judging, an admirable young man. Though Threepio
personally saw no reason why human remains should not simply be jettisoned,
burned, or for that matter stewed and eaten by other humans in an emergency
(provided they were certified free of harmful bacteria first and, if
possible, aesthetically prepared), he was acutely aware that neither Her
Excellency, the young man's family, nor the deceased himself would have
considered this send-off at all respectful. Respect and custom being the
foundation stone of protocol, Threepio was deeply offended.
&nb
sp; Not nearly as offended as he later became, however.
"Nice ship," remarked Bortrek again, turning from the airlock door before
the cycle had even cleared.
"My counterpart informs me that it is a top-of-the-line scouting vessel
designed for short-range deep-space travel and limited hyper-drive," replied
Threepio helpfully. "It has ten-point-two engines and a hull capacity of
thirty-five hundred cubic meters."
"What," grunted Bortrek, "you trying to sell it to me?" He passed a hand
close to an auxiliary door on the way down the passage, nodded with approval
of the opening speed without going in. "Sure beats hell out of the old
Sabacc. Pity it's not bigger."
Having seen the Pure Sabacc as the large, ramshackled vessel which had been
maneuvered into docking position on the scout, Threepio was inclined to
agree, though he knew his own judgment on such matters was limited.
Artoo had checked the Sabacc by scanner and had confirmed the opinion The
other vessel's power output ratios were all far lower, and though clearly a
long-distance hyperdrive vessel, she appeared to be less maneuverable as
well.
"The engines of this vessel were seriously damaged by collision with debris
during the recent battle," Threepio went on, still trailing Bartrek as the
man made his way around the little ship, flicking readouts to life, tapping
walls, bending to look into access hatches.
"It is imperative that my counterpart and I obtain passage to the fleet
installation on Cybloc XII. Although I have no official clearance, I can
assure you of a high probability of reward, to be forwarded to you after our
arrival on Coruscant at whatever address you wish to give."
Bartrek halted in the middle of the bridge, looking from Threepio to
Artoo-Detoo, who was still linked into the main navicomputer, absorbing
readings and information whose echoes flashed across the screens all around
him. Though, as Threepio had said, the guidance systems of the scout vessel
had been damaged by collision with debris--rendering drift into
interplanetary space almost inevitable had not Bar-trek picked up their
distress signal--the camm lines were still open.
Artoo tweeped a string of information that made Threepio exclaim, "Good
heavens!"
"What's he say? Bortrek was tallying up the burned-out consoles with a
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