knowing eye.
"There are reports of revolt from Ampliquen and King's Galquek, and
according to Artoo, plague has broken out on the Durren base as well .
This is terrible!"
"Terrible enough for me to get my tail out of here, anyway, Goldie."
Bortrek crossed to where Artoo stood and rapped with speculative knuckles on
the little droid's domed cap. "What model R2 is he, Goldie. Dee?"
"A dee, yes. They're quite good models, and extremely versatile, though
sometimes a little erratic. For any type of sheerly astromechanical or
stellar navigation, one cannot better the records of the R2 series in
general, and the dee models in particular--or so I'm told."
Bortrek knelt and flipped open Artoo's back panel, reaching in with an
extractor he'd produced from the pocket of his reptile-leather vest.
"So you are told that, are you." Artoo emitted a little squeak, then
withdrew his data jack from the port. "Well, Goldie, I been told that, too.
So I'll tell you what. You and him just head on back to the primary lock and
wait for me on the bridge of the Sabacc. I'll be over in a while."
"We really are very fortunate, you know," Threepio said, as he and Artoo
crossed through the narrow neck of the port-to-port tunnel that linked the
two ships. "With trade being turned away and rebellion on the planet, and
now plague as well, no ships of hyperspace capability are going to be
leaving the Durren system for quite some time. The Meridian sector is very
thinly inhabited and well out of most trade routes. We could have drifted
for years--centuries, perhaps before we were discovered.
By that time, goodness knows what might have befallen Her Excellency."
Artoo vouchsafed no reply. Threepio guessed that Captain Bortrek had
disabled a portion of the little astromech's motivator, a wise precaution,
perhaps. Artoo was unaccountable sometimes and might have refused to abandon
the patently useless scout.
"Once we reach Cybloc XII, we can notify the proper authorities of Her
Excellency's whereabouts. I doubt it would be safe to do so from this ship
or in fact to let Captain Bortrek know' of the matter at all.
Grateful as I am for the rescue, one cannot be sure of such a man's
loyalties. But I'm sure that we can put in a voucher to the Central Council
to make ample remuneration to him for his trouble . . ."
He broke off; leaving his speculation unfinished, as they emerged from the
Pure Sabacc's lock into her main holding bay. Strongboxes were stacked
casually against the walls--one of them, open, showed bundles of bearer
bonds and a considerable quantity of gold coins. Another was filled beyond
closing point with platinum and electrum cast into shapes that Threepio
immediately identified as sacred to four of the six main faiths currently
fashionable on the planet Durren Reliquaries, mon-strances, jeweled
prayer-wheels tumbled at random and bent to accommodate the confines of the
chest. Items too large for easy storage--statues and pieces of furniture
clearly valuable for their workmanship and materials--were tumbled and
shoved in corners, along with roughly tied masses of embroidered velvets and
precious stohl fur, and more sacks that had the unmistakable shape of
coinage.
"Good heavens!" Threepio exclaimed in surprise. "Judging from the latest
market valuation statistics of gold and platinum, there must be several
million credits in this hold alone! Whatever is a man like Captain
Bortrek--who does not appear to be of the more prosperous classes, nor is he
even a native of the planet Durren--doing with all this wealth?"
"Taking it on commission, my friend."
Threepio turned, and Artoo swiveled his cap to align his visual receptors
with the scar-lipped captain as he emerged from the airlock at their heels.
He carried a huge square of plastic casing that had been a console housing,
filled to overflowing with components and wire, and had a thick black remote
unit in one hand.
"Commission, sir?"
He grinned a slow grin, reminding Threepio, who was not fanciful, of some
semisentient species less developed from its hunting ancestors than standard
humankind. "For absent owners and their--uh--heirs.
There's a lot of unrest back there in Durren. Partisans coming in out of the
countryside, riots in the streets. Lots of houses being burned, lots of
people getting the hell away before things get worse. Some of 'em decide
now's a good time to clean out their closets, get rid of all that excess
gold and platinum they got lyin' around. You."
He gestured with the remote unit at Artoo. "I burned out my main
navicomputer after a little difference of opinion with the Port Authorities,
pox eat their lying hearts. I'm gonna need you."
Artoo hesitated and let out another protesting wail that caused Bortrek to
point the remote in his direction and Threepio to admonish, "Artoo, behave
yourself! If Captain Bortrek is being so good as to transport us to Cybloc
XII, it's only right that we assist him with his ship by any means in our
power."
The astromech wavered, rocking on his wheels, but Captain Bortrek had quite
clearly disabled the upper level of motivators. After a despairing little
beep, Artoo followed Bortrek through the door.
Threepio started after them, saying, "Now, Captain Bortrek, once we reach
Cybloc XII it is imperative that we get in touch with Admiral Ackbar of the
Republic fleet . . ."
The door shut in his face. After a considerable period of time, during which
he amused himself by pricing the contents of the hold at somewhere between
twenty-three and twenty-eight million credits (allowing for an inflation
index as a result of the unrest in the sector and fluctuations in the
average price of Durren artwork), Threepio's auditory sensors picked up the
scraping and rocking of the port-to-port tunnel being retracted. Calling up
a readout on the pad near the storage hold's door--the binary language was a
very simple one--Threepio ascertained that the Pure Sabacc was being put
into pretravel mode.
"How- very curious," the droid remarked to himself. "I quite distinctly
heard Captain Bortrek say that his navigational computer was non
functional."
He addressed a few further remarks to the computer core, which when phrased
in quite standard codes caused the mechanism to blurt everything it knew' on
any number of subjects in a succession of high-speed bursts. It took
Threepio a few seconds to download the bursts from his temporary holding
memory and process the information into existing systemic memory, but when
he did, he felt as close to outrage as a well-programmed protocol droid is
capable of being.
"Why, that course that's being laid in is nowhere near Cybloc XII!"
he exclaimed. "The man is a thief! We're being stolen!"
"The entire mission has disappeared." Mon Mothma, guiding spirit of the
Rebellion and former Chief of State of the Provisional Government, held her
wasted hands close to the semicircular iron fender of the hearth, and the
flame outlined her fingers in threads of amber lig
ht.
Han Solo, though he'd come to know the tall, beautiful woman well over the
past several years, still felt in awe of her. Her picture was everywhere, in
histories of the Rebellion and of the last days of the Empire. It was like
sitting across the fire from a god of ancient legend, or finding oneself in
the same room with smashball center guard Rip "Iron One" Calkin who'd made
seven hundred last season.
"Disappeared?" Something within the cage of his ribs went still and cold.
Winter had taken the children to the nursery, a vine-hung tower room at the
top of a long flight of steps. The small parlor was dim, the lamps cached in
discreet niches casting warm patterns of light on the painted ceilings with
a wavery gleam indistinguishable from that of combustible fuel. The fire
that played over the lumps of coal and wood on the hearth's white sand was
genuine, though it issued from a buried gas pipe, and Han remembered with a
sudden pang making love to Leia on the rug of milk-white stohl fur, the
night before her departure.
"We're keeping the news quiet for as long as we can." Mon Mothma
straightened up a little, luminous dark eyes catching the firelight.
She looked a million times better than she had the last time Han had seen
her, lying in the hospital after yet another round of bacta-tank therapy to
combat the wasting effects of an attempted poisoning, and a million times
worse than the woman he had first met in the ragged chaos of some temporary
headquarters of the Rebel fleet. She had never lost the gaunt look of death,
and the skin hung loose under jawbone and wrists.
Her hair, dark through the horrors and vicissitudes of the fight against
Palpatine, had begun to gray with the poisoning and was white now, and she
still walked with two canes when she was not on public view.
She was still beautiful.
"The matter is complicated by the fact that Minister of State Rieekan has
fallen gravely ill. At first we were afraid it might be related to the
plague that has been reported in the Meridian sector, but . . ."
"Plague?" demanded Han, and cold touched him again. Not Leia . .
"Reports are too fragmentary to be sure," she said, in a tone that told Han
that she was darn sure. "When it broke out on the Durren orbital base it was
suspected to be poison, but there's no evidence of that.
No evidence of an actual illness, either. No bacteria, no virus, no
polyphagous microorganisms Nothing.
Only men and women dying.
We can't get med teams in because of the revolt that has broken out on
Durren itself. Local factions have the base under siege . . ."
"Siege? said Han "With two cruisers there?"
"The cruisers were--are--out, investigating what is either a pirate attack
on Ampliquen or what might be a rupture of the truce between Budpock and
Ampliquen. We haven't heard. Nor have we heard anything of Leia's flagship
or its escort after they reported the meeting 'acceptably' concluded and
entered hyperspace at the scheduled jump point."
An R-10 trundled in, dispatched by the house timer with a glass of beer for
Han and cocoa for Mon Mothma. Like everything else in the house, the little
droid was designed to fit in with the rustic fantasy, hand-crafted in
patinated wood and old green bronze. if the Emperor still owned the house,
reflected Han, the droid would probably have been replaced by a synthdroid,
which according to the ads could be shaped to exactly resemble any sentient
or semisentient life form in the Registry. Han wasn't sure how comfortable
he'd have been with them around, in the unlikely event that Leia's salary
would even cover the cost of such a thing.
"Have you checked Ashgad's part in this?"
She nodded, and sipped her cocoa, setting the cup down on the droid's
worn-looking bronze top. "Final report from the Borealis includes sensor
readings from Ashgad's vessel, which indicate nothing unusual.
The captains of both the flagship and the escort reported no other vessels
closer than Pedducis Chorios, and Leia herself said that Ashgad seemed
content with the outcome of the meeting. We've sent a message to Ashgad . .
."
"Which means nothing if he's in on it."
"Maybe." She rubbed her arms, and Chewbacca picked up one of Winter's
shawls, whose pattern and colors changed kaleidoscope-like every few'
minutes, and draped it over the former Chief's shoulders. She looked her
thanks to him with a smile.
"Nov, I know an Interdictor can extract a ship from hyperspace ....
"It can," said Han. "But Intelligence has been keeping a pretty close eye on
everybody who's Got Interdictors---everybody that we know about.
As far as I know we haven't heard a peep. I mean, yeah, they can pull a ship
out of hyperspace, but then they've got a ship on their hands that has to be
explained. We've been watching for that one."
"As you said," murmured Mon Mothma, "you can only watch those you know
about. Might someone alter a jump point by remote?
Re-route them?"
"Not possible," said Han. "I mean, I'm not a scientist or anything, but
those navicomputers are shielded like a Valorsian harem against every kind
of solar flare and gamma particle for just that reason, but when I was in
the game there were always rumors about either the Imps or some one of the
big smuggler chiefs figuring out a way to do that."
The chill behind his sternum seemed to tighten as he said it. All his life
he'd played tag with the black hollows of eternity, and he knew just how
immense were the spaces between stars. Anything could be out there. It was
every deep-spacer's nightmare to be somehow disoriented in the interstellar
gulfs. It was why he had labored to memorize hundreds of starfields, why he
still kept reams of hardcopy starcharts on the Millennium Falcon in spite of
the teasing he got about it from Lando and his other smuggler buddies of
years past.
Just the thought that someone might be able to alter a jump point by remote
was enough to scare the pants off him.
It was something else. It had to be something else.
Angrily, he said, "So whose great idea was it for the Council to select a
pro tem successor if both the Chief of State and the First Minister bought
it? The minute they know she's missing they're gonna deadlock, and then you
won't be able to do anything."
"We can't do anything now."
"What about a hologram?" asked Han. "We could get some holo faker to splice
together recent footage . . ."
"That," said Mon Mothma coldly, "has already been tried. Once by the Daysong
Party, who have heard rumors of the disappear ance . . .
"From whom? Where?"
She shook her head. "Rumors are already beginning to fly, Han.
Admiral Ackbar has put the Council on a twelve-hour hiatus to prevent
violence between Senator Typia of the Daysong Party and Senator Aras-tide of
Gantho. The second faked hologram we haven't been able to trace, though we
suspect the Tervigs, since it declared that trade in Bandie slaves from
Tervissis was acceptable. In any case, it was so badly put together that it
<
br /> obviates any connection with the original disappearance.
"And no matter what the circumstances," she went on, measuring her words
with arctic exactness, "substitution of a holographic fake for the Chief of
State of the Republic is not a precedent I wish to see set.
Nor, I think you would agree, does Leia."
Han felt like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "No.
I guess not."
Another reason, he reflected, not to rule the galaxy.
"What about Luke?" he asked into the silence that followed.
"Luke?"
"He was on the Borealis. He was here to see her off Then she got a message
at the last minute from Callista--saying for Leia not to trust Ashgad as far
as she could throw him--and Luke went along. He planned to take a small
craft down to the surface past the gun stations, to see if Callista was on
Nam Chorios."
"Ashgad," said Mon Mothma softly. "I didn't know' that. We've been trying to
reach Luke on the moon of Yavin. His students thought he might have returned
and gone into the jungle to meditate."
Han grunted. Then the silence returned, save for the wickering of the fire,
and the murmur of the fountain in the corner of the parlor.
Firelight caught in Chewbacca's eyes, twin blue glimmers beneath the shadow
of his brows. Beyond the tall, magnetically guarded opening that made up the
room's southern wall, the magic skies of the Corus-cant system shimmered
with ropes and veils and spilled treasures of prodigal starlight.
"I'll need to get in touch with Lando," he said at length.
Mon Mothma nodded. She seemed to have read his mind from the first.
He reflected that it was probably part of the Chief of State's job
description.
"He'll have his own ship for the search. We have to keep this small--we'll
probably never know who originally blabbed, among the crews of the Borealis
and the Adamantine. Any objections to Mara Jade knowing? She knows how to
quarter a sector."
Mothma nodded. "Anyone else?"
"Kyp Durron, from the Academy. Wedge Antilles, if he can be spared.
Kyp'll need a ship. Nothing that'll get noticed, but it has to be fast."
"It's done," said Mon Mothma. She held out to him a red plast cube.
"These are the final reports from Leia, Commander Zoalin, and Captain Ioa,
and the sensor readings on Ashgad's ship and on all the surrounding five
Planet of Twilight Page 12
