In the capable hands of gangly Brudi Gayn, the modified CloakShape and the booster ring that had allowed it to enter hyperspace completed three short jumps in as many hours, emerging in a remote area of the Tion Cluster, far from any inhabited worlds. Waiting there, however, was a twenty-year-old Corellian freighter as large as a Tantive-class corvette, but with a circular command module.
Shryne counted five gun turrets; he already knew from Brudi that the Drunk Dancer boasted sublights and a hyperdrive better suited to a ship twice its size.
Brudi disengaged from the booster ring while they were still some distance from the freighter, then in his own good time maneuvered the CloakShape through a magnetic containment shield in the Drunk Dancer’s starboard side, and into a spacious docking bay. On their landing disks sat a small drop ship and a swift, split-winged Incom Relay, not much bigger than the CloakShape.
Brudi popped the canopy, and Shryne and Starstone climbed down to the deck, slipping out of their helmets and flight suits at the bottom of the ladder. The two Jedi were wearing the simple spacer garments that Cash Garrulan had provided. Long accustomed to executing undercover missions, Shryne didn’t feel out of place without a tunic and robe, even without a lightsaber. He knew better than to convince himself that, having escaped Murkhana, they were suddenly in the clear. Before and during the war he had had his share of close calls and times when he had been chased, but going into hiding was entirely new.
Even newer to Olee Starstone, who looked as if the events of the past couple of weeks, the past thirty-six hours especially, were finally beginning to catch up to her. He could tell from her uncertain gestures that Starstone, who had probably never worn anything but Temple robes or field outfits, was still adjusting to their new circumstances.
Shryne resisted the temptation to console her. Their future was cloudier than the gunship drop into Murkhana City had been, and the sooner Starstone learned to take responsibility for herself, the better.
Alerted to the CloakShape’s arrival, several members of the Drunk Dancer’s crew were waiting in the docking bay. Shryne had encountered their type before, primarily in those outlying systems that had drifted into Count Dooku’s embrace before the Separatist movement had been formalized as the Confederacy of Independent Systems. Just from the look of them Shryne could see that they lacked the discipline of crews belonging to Black Sun or the Hutt syndicates, despite Brudi’s disclosure that the Drunk Dancer accepted occasional contracts from a variety of crime cartels.
Dressed in bits and pieces of apparel they had obviously obtained on dozens of worlds, they were a ragtag band of freelance smugglers, without star system or political affiliation, or bones to pick with anyone. Determined to maintain their autonomy, they had learned that smugglers didn’t get rich by working for others.
In the docking bay Shryne and Starstone were introduced to the Drunk Dancer’s first mate, Skeck Draggle, and the freighter’s security chief, Archyr Beil. Both were humanoids as long-limbed as Brudi Gayn, with six-fingered hands and severe facial features that belied cheerful dispositions.
In the ship’s main cabin space the two Jedi met Filli Bitters, a towheaded human slicer who took an immediate interest in Starstone, and the Drunk Dancer’s communications expert, Eyl Dix, whose hairless dark green head hosted two pair of curling antennae, in addition to a pair of sharp-tipped ears.
Before long everyone, including a couple of inquisitive droids, had gathered in the main cabin to hear Shryne and Starstone’s account of their narrow escape from Murkhana. The fact that no one mentioned anything about the hunt for Jedi made Shryne uneasy, but not uneasy enough to pursue the point—at least not until he had a clearer sense of just where he and Starstone stood in the eyes of the smugglers.
“Cash asked that we bring you to Mossak,” Skeck Draggle said after the Jedi had entertained everyone with details of the daring flight. “Mossak’s just the other side of Felucia, and a decent hub for jumps into the Tingel Arm or just about anywhere up and down the Perlemian Trade Route.” He looked directly at Shryne. “We, ah, normally don’t offer free transport. But seeing how it was Cash who asked, and, uh, knowing what you folk have had to endure, we’ll cover the costs.”
“We appreciate that,” Shryne said, sensing the sharp-featured Skeck had left something unstated.
“The Twi’lek fix you with new identichips?” Archyr asked, in what seemed to be actual concern.
Shryne nodded. “Good enough to fool agents at Murkhana STC, anyway.”
“Then they’ll pass muster on Mossak, as well,” the lanky security chief said. “You shouldn’t have too much trouble finding temporary work, if that’s your plan.” Archyr regarded Shryne. “You have any contacts you can trust?”
Shryne’s eyebrows bobbed. “Good question.”
When the assembled crew members fell into a separate conversation, Starstone moved close to Shryne. “Just what is our plan, Mas—”
Shryne’s lifted finger stopped her midsentence. “No order; no ranks.”
“You don’t know that,” she said, echoing his quiet tone. “You agreed that other Jedi probably survived.”
“Listen, kid,” he said, gazing at her for emphasis, “the Climbers of this galaxy are few and far between.”
“Jedi could have survived by other means. It’s our duty to locate them.”
“Our duty?”
“To ourselves. To the Force.”
Shryne took a deep breath. “How do you propose we do that?”
She gnawed at her lower lip while she considered it, then looked at him pointedly. “We have Master Chatak’s beacon transceiver. If we could patch it into the Drunk Dancer’s communications suite, we could issue a Nine Thirteen code on encrypted frequencies.”
Shryne laughed in spite of himself. “You know, that could actually work.” He glanced at the crew members. “Still, I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.”
She returned the smile. “But you’re not me.”
When Shryne turned back to the crew, he found Skeck gazing at him. “So I guess your scheme failed, huh?”
“Which scheme would that be, chief?”
Skeck glanced at his crewmates before answering. “Knocking Palpatine off his perch. Fighting the war the way it probably should have been fought all along.”
“You’ve been misinformed,” Shryne said flatly.
Skeck sat back in feigned nonchalance. “Really? We’ve all heard the recordings of what went on in Palpatine’s chambers.”
The other crew members nodded somberly.
“Don’t get me wrong,” the first mate continued before Shryne could respond. “I’ve nothing against any of you personally. But you have to admit, the way some of your people conducted themselves when Republic interests were at stake … The prestige you enjoyed. The wealth you amassed.”
“I give the Jedi credit for trying,” the slicer, Filli Bitters, chimed in. “But you should never have left yourselves so shorthanded on Coruscant. Not with so many troopers garrisoned there.”
Shryne laughed cheerlessly. “We were needed in the Outer Rim Sieges, you see.”
“Don’t you get it?” Eyl Dix said. “The Jedi were played.” When she shrugged her narrow shoulders, her twin antennae bobbed. “That’s what Cash thinks, anyway.”
Skeck laughed in derision. “From where I sit, getting played is worse than losing.”
“You’ll be safe from Imperial reach on Mossak,” Bitters said quickly, in an obvious attempt to be cheerful.
Sudden silence told Shryne that none of the Drunk Dancer’s crew was buying the slicer’s optimism.
“I realize that we’re already in your debt,” he said at last, “but we’ve a proposition for you.”
Skeck’s green eyes widened in interest. “Lay it out. Let’s see how it looks.”
Shryne turned to Starstone. “Tell them.”
She gestured to herself. “Me?”
“It was your idea, kid.”
“Okay,” Starstone began uncertainly. “Sure.” She cleared her voice. “We’re hoping to make contact with other Jedi who survived Palpatine’s execution orders. We have a transceiver capable of transmitting on encrypted frequencies. Any Jedi who survived will be doing the same thing, or listening for special transmissions. The thing is, we’d need to use the Drunk Dancer’s communications suite.”
“That’s a little like whistling in the stellar wind, isn’t it?” Dix said. “From what we hear, the clones got the drop on all of you.”
“Almost all of us,” Starstone said.
Bitters was rocking his head back and forth in uncertainty, but Shryne could tell that the white-haired computer expert was excited by the idea—and perhaps grateful for a chance to win points with Olee. Regardless, Filli said: “Could be dangerous. The Empire might be on to those frequencies by now.”
“Not if as many of us are dead as all of you seem to think,” Shryne countered.
Bitters, Dix, and Archyr waited for Skeck to speak.
“Well, of course, we’d have to get the captain to agree,” he said at last. “Anyway, I’m still waiting to hear the rest of the proposition—the part that makes it worth our while.”
Everyone looked at Shryne.
“The Jedi have means of accessing emergency funds,” he said, with a covert motion of his hand. “You don’t have to worry about being paid for your services.”
Skeck nodded, satisfied. “Then we don’t have to worry about being paid for our services.”
While Starstone was staring at Shryne in appalled disbelief and the crew members were talking among themselves about how best to slave the Jedi beacon transceiver to the communications suite, Brudi Gayn and a tall human woman entered the cabin space from the direction of the Drunk Dancer’s bulbous cockpit. The woman’s black hair was shot through with gray, and her age showed there and in her face more than in the way she moved.
“Captain,” Skeck said, coming to his feet, but she ignored him, her gray eyes fixed on Shryne.
“Roan Shryne?” she said.
Shryne looked up at her. “Last time I checked.”
She forced an exhale and shook her head in incredulity. “Stars’ end, it really is you.” She sat down opposite Shryne, without once taking her eyes off him. “You’re the image of Jen.”
Baffled, Shryne said: “Do I know you?”
She nodded and laughed. “On a cellular level, at any rate.” She touched herself on the chest. “I gave birth to you. I’m your mother, Jedi.”