TWENTY
“They forged what?” Han asked.
Baffle’s auditory sensors were capable of perceiving the merest whisper, but the question—-pumped up by puzzlement—could be heard over the clamor in the spaceport terminal.
“Travel vouchers of some sort,” Baffle said distractedly.
Hardwired into a columnar data bank, the droid returned to accessing information, while all around them—in a frenzy of clashing colors and commingled smells—scurried mixed-species groups of refugees, pilots, translators, and uniformed officials.
“From what I can ascertain,” Baffle updated a moment later, “Droma’s clanmates are accused of having forged documents of transit that permitted several hundred exiles—including all thirty-seven Ryn who were housed at Facility 17—to depart Ruan aboard a commercial freighter.”
Han ran his hand down his face. Depart! He and Droma had arrived too late. The Ryn were gone, and now Droma was under arrest—just for being a Ryn.
“See if you can get the name of the ship.”
Baffle made adjustments to the hardwire’s retrieval regulator. “The vessel is called the Trevee,” he announced as if reading from a display screen, when in fact the data was going straight to his neural processor. “It has a Nar Shaddaa registry.”
Han groaned, then tightened his lips in negation. Maybe it wasn’t the Tholatin group. All sorts of relief groups were in the legitimate business of providing transport to stranded refugees, and the Trevee might belong to any one of them, despite its Hutt space registry. The Ryn had probably thrown in with a group of desperate exiles, and had resorted to forgery only to secure onward passage.
“Why would Salliche care about a group of refugees traveling on forged documents?” he asked at last. “The whole idea is to get everyone relocated, right?”
Baffle divided his attention between Han and the rapid flow of data. “Even though Salliche Ag has been earnest in its attempts to entice refugees to remain onworld, the company wouldn’t ordinarily demand retribution for such an offense. In this instance, though, the Ryn are accused of conspiracy in addition to forgery. It seems that the captain and crew of the Trevee are themselves suspected of fraud. In recent months, instead of discharging their obligations to provide safe passage to other worlds, they have been known to abandon their passengers at destinations other than those promised.”
Grumbling to himself, Han stormed through a circle on the heavily scuffed floor. Tholatin’s security chief had said that refugees were often marooned on worlds subsequently targeted for attack by the Yuuzhan Vong, which meant that Droma’s clanmates might have flipped themselves inadvertently from the cooker to the heating element.
“See if the Trevee filed a flight plan with Ruan control.”
Baffle set himself to the task. “Yes, here we are,” he said, photoreceptors brightening. “The Trevee launched for Abregado-rae.”
Han’s brows beetled. He could see where Abregadorae, another Core world, might be more desirable than Ruan as a place to be stranded. But in terms of the Yuuzhan Vong, the place had less strategic value than Gyndine or Tynna.
“That’s odd,” Baffle said suddenly.
“What? What’s odd?”
The droid turned away from the column to look at him. “A notation appended to the flight plan states that the Trevee’s actual hyperspace jump was better suited to a destination Rimward of Abregado-rae along the Rimma Trade Route—perhaps to Thyferra or Yag’Dhul.”
Han considered it. Yag’Dhul, tempestuous homeworld of the exoskeletal Givin, made even less sense than Abregado-rae. But Thyferra—the galaxy’s principal source of bacta—clicked as both a tempting destination and a potential target, albeit a well-defended one.
He began to pace. If he left immediately for Thyferra, he stood a good chance of finding Droma’s clanmates long before the Yuuzhan Vong hit the world, but there was no telling what might happen to Droma in his absence. By contrast, remaining on Ruan for Droma’s sake could jeopardize the lives of the thirty-seven missing Ryn.
“Thyferra seems infinitely preferable to Yag’Dhul,” Baffle remarked casually.
Han glanced at him. “I thought you said you’ve been on Ruan since your activation at Fondor.”
“That’s true—to the best of my knowledge. Though I do wonder sometimes if I may have traveled more than I realize.”
Han’s eyes narrowed. “But you’re certain you never studied the workings of war droids with a Ruurian named Skynx?”
“I’m almost certain I haven’t.”
“Almost,” Han snorted. “For a labor droid, you’re pretty good at data retrieval.”
“Ah, but that’s easily explained,” Baffle said. “Before I was delegated to drive, I worked at district headquarters, overseeing the reassignment of droids retired from agricultural field work.”
“Desk job.”
“Not really, since I performed most of my tasks standing up.” Baffle paused briefly, then said, “Sir, if you wish, I could be of some assistance in freeing your partner from captivity.”
“He’s not my partner,” Han snapped.
“Your travel companion, then.”
Han stared at the droid for a moment, then exhaled forcefully. “Okay, let’s hear it.”
Baffle didn’t respond immediately, and when he did there was a note of gravity in his tone of voice that hadn’t been evident earlier. “Sir, can I trust that you will refrain from disclosing any of what I’m about to tell or show you, no matter what decision you reach regarding the Ryn?”
Han laughed through his nose. “Labor droid, my eye.”
“Do I have your word, sir?”
“Sure,” Han said. “I’m terrific at keeping secrets.” He watched Baffle make another adjustment to the hardwire regulator. “Now what are you up to?”
“I’m simply alerting some of my comrades that we’ll be joining them.” Baffle unplugged from the data column and began to move off, then stopped. “If you’ll follow me, sir.”
As surreptitiously as possible, they slipped through an innocuous-looking doorway in the terminal’s east wall and rode an ancient cable-operated car down through several basement and subbasement levels. Exiting the lift, Baffle led Han past banks of deafening turbine power plants, then into a maze of service corridors that coursed beneath the spaceport’s landing platforms and docking bays. Along the way, two other droids joined them, a lanky, vaguely humaniform 8D8 blast-furnace operator and an arachnidlike systems control droid propelled by a set of telescoping legs. Ultimately, they entered a heavy-doored and dimly lighted storage room, in which no fewer than thirty droids of various types were already gathered.
Scanning the machines, Han spotted an old P2 unit, with mangled grasper arms emerging from its domed head; a helmet-headed military protocol droid; a U2C1 housekeeping droid, with long pleated hoses for arms; an asp, whose head resembled a welder’s mask; an insectile-eyed J9 worker; two tank-treaded, trash-barrel-bodied C2-R4s; even a skeletal and long-obsolete Cybot LE repair droid.
Han felt as if he’d been swallowed by a Jawa sand-crawler, but he kept the thought to himself.
A few moments of lightning-fast machine code was all it took for Baffle to bring the others up to speed on Han’s predicament. Sprinkled among the subsequent chatterings, Han heard what sounded like the word Ryn—at least the way machines might articulate it. Eventually, heads and sensor appendages of wide assortment swung to observe him.
Slightly unnerved, Han uttered a short laugh. “Hey, it’s been a while since I’ve spoken droid, fellas.”
Baffle apologized for the lot of them. “We sometimes forget that the speed of the flesh-and-blood brain lags far behind that of our processors.”
Han scowled. “Skip the sales pitch, Long Reach, and tell me what I’ve gotten myself into.”
Baffle gestured toward the globe-headed systems control droid who had rendezvoused with them in the maintenance tunnels. “Pip here has succeeded in locating Droma. As I might have surmised, he is not being held at Facility 17, but at Salliche Ag’s district headquarters, where he is to be arraigned on charges and sentenced.” The droid paused to attend to chirps from the P2 unit. “If convicted of conspiracy, the minimum sentence is five years of hard labor.”
Squatting on its several legs, the systems control droid projected a faintly blue hologram of a sprawling complex, built into a hillside that overlooked a far-reaching quilt of cultivated fields.
“The area where Droma is currently being held is denied to droids,” Baffle went on, “but a human—such as yourself—should have no trouble reaching him.”
A highlighted portion of the hologram expanded into a close-up of the foot of the hill, where a system of containment pools and aqueducts directed water into a labyrinth of deep irrigation ditches.
“What am I supposed to do, just march in there and grab him?” Han asked.
Baffle chittered to Pip, who immediately displayed holograms of uniforms and identity badges, some of which were emblazoned with Salliche Ag’s corporate logo.
“We can provide you with the necessary clothing and documentation,” Baffle elaborated, “along with maps and whatever else you may require to familiarize yourself with the layout of the district headquarters and its immediate surroundings. We can also arrange for authentication by the security devices you will encounter, although it will be your responsibility to persuade the flesh and bloods with whom you come in contact that you are indeed whom your credentials describe you to be. It will also be your responsibility to locate and rescue Droma, and to make your escape by whatever route you see fit to take.”
Chin in hand, Han circled the holographic projections. “I’d need a concealable weapon.”
“A weapon can be provided.”
Han stopped and glanced around. “Not to seem ungrateful, but I get the feeling you’re not doing this out of the goodness of your programming. What’s the catch?”
The droids toodled and buzzed for a moment.
“In return for our assistance,” Baffle said, “we would ask that you do something for us.” New holograms resolved in midair, showing detailed views of the interior of the headquarters building. “In a room on the fifth level of the east wing are the master controls for a transceiver/rectenna array that serves as a monitoring system for this district’s several thousand droid workers—all of whom are outfitted with shutdown sensors that can be remotely activated.”
Han studied the holo of the master controls. “So the transceiver functions as a kind of remote restraining bolt.”
“That would describe it.”
Han grinned. “And you want me to disable it.”
“I might have used the word sabotage,” Baffle said.
Han circled the new hologram. “If you can arrange to get me past the building’s security scanners, why can’t you do the job yourselves?”
“The transceiver is a stand-alone apparatus, and the entire east wing is accessible only to flesh and bloods. Entry requires a palm print—”
“Which you can provide,” Han said, wishing Droma were there to hear him say it. He stopped to scrutinize the holographic controls. “Is there a code that will disarm the system?”
“Because we have never had access to the transceiver, blunt trauma might be the most effective course of action. However, we would be happy to provide you with a data card containing a machine virus that should serve the same end.”
“What happens then?”
“With the transceiver disabled, the thousands of droids Salliche Ag has already deactivated will be free to escape imprisonment.”
Han glanced from droid to droid in growing misgiving. “Let me get this straight,” he said into an eerie silence. “Salliche has a bunch of droids—er, you folks—on ice. Why?”
“Salliche Ag would have everyone believe that the employment of flesh and bloods allows them to boast of providing ‘handpicked’ foodstuffs. But in fact, the company is phasing out droid workers as a means of demonstrating compliance with the antimachine tenets of the Yuuzhan Vong. Tens of thousands of deactivated droids will be Ruan’s welcome gift to the invaders when they reach the Core.”
Han gulped. Credits to crumbs, the crew of the Trevee had selected Ruan because Yuuzhan Vong agents had already been there.
“You realize that shutting down the transceiver is probably going to touch off every alarm in the complex,” he said.
“Yes, but we can silence most of them,” Baffle assured. “What’s more, many of our deactivated comrades are stored at the complex itself, and once they are reactivated, we can unseal the chambers that house them. The ensuing confusion should aid in your escape.”
“Yeah, Droma and me’ll blend in real well with a bunch of reawakened droids,” Han muttered. “But that’s beside the point. What’s to stop Salliche from repairing the system and deactivating every droid set free?”
“Given even a modicum of time, we can extract the remote sensors from most of those who are liberated—as we have already done to ourselves.”
“Without Salliche’s knowledge?”
“All droids on Ruan have deactivation dates,” Baffle explained. “In order to safeguard our deception, many of us have had to submit to voluntary deactivation while our act of sabotage was being planned.”
“Isn’t all this against your programming or something?”
“Our inhibition programs prevent us from taking direct actions against living beings, but we are permitted, even encouraged, to act in self-preservation. We’ve simply been awaiting the arrival of the one flesh and blood who could help us.”
Han held up his hands. “Not so fast. I mean, let’s say I decide to go through with this, and suddenly there’s a couple of thousand of you who can’t be remotely deactivated. You think that’s going to stop Salliche from hunting every one of you down and hammering a restraining bolt into your plastrons, or just blasting you to fragments?”
“We’re aware of the fate that awaits us,” Baffle said. “But before Salliche Ag can bring about our termination, we plan to execute and broadcast an act of passive resistance that will not only draw galactic attention to our plight, but also alert our comrades far and wide to the dangers they face.”
Han thought about C-3PO and his current obsession with deactivation, and he thought about Droma, who had saved Han’s life on two occasions. An easier way to rescue the Ryn would be to pull rank on whatever bureaucrats administered Ruan. He could simply reveal who he was, and claim that he and Droma were on a mission for New Republic Intelligence. But doing so could backfire on him. Because of the part he had played in the Elan affair, Han could well imagine Director Scaur disavowing any connection between Han and New Republic Intelligence. And even if Scaur backed up Han’s ruse, there was a good chance that Leia would learn of what happened and accuse Han of meddling in SELCORE business. Besides, rescuing Droma by pulling rank wouldn’t do anything for Baffle and the rest of Ruan’s droids.
“All right, I’ll do it,” he said at last. “But on one condition: I want to know where the Trevee went. I want ion drive and thermal exhaust profiles, transponder codes, hyperspace coordinates, and anything else you can come up with.”
“I will attend to the matter personally,” Baffle said.
Han took a breath and blew it out through pursed lips. “You said Droma is being held in a denied area. Where is he?”
Baffle traded glances with some of the others. “He is being held at the product enhancement facility.”
“Product enhancement,” Han repeated slowly.
Baffle nodded. “The manure works.”