NINETEEN

Showolter grimaced as he watched the ooglith masquer captured on Wayland envelop and attach itself to Elan, extruding microscopic hooks and tentacles that inserted themselves into pores, sweat ducts, wrinkles, and folds. Naked, Elan had her back turned to him, but he could tell by her contortions and the involuntary flexing of her shipshape muscles that the process of donning the living mantle was excruciating—exquisitely so, according to Elan.

Alert to his curiosity, she had asked him to watch, in a manner that had managed to mix indifference with a hint of flirtation. He could endure only so much of her agonized moaning, however, and turned away to gaze out the safe house’s sole window at a stand of trees, whose high metal content made that part of Myrkr a challenge for transceivers and other communication arrays.

“All finished,” Elan announced stoically, and Showolter turned again to find her clothed not only in the Yuuzhan Vong second-skin but also in the robe he had originally handed her. She looked more human than ever.

Elan massaged her cheeks, forehead, and chin, as one might smooth away creases. “You see, Showolter? No trace of my markings, no evidence of who and what I truly am.”

Showolter realized he’d been holding his breath, and he let it out. “One size cloaker fits all, huh?”

“Why, are you interested in trying it on?”

“No,” he replied quickly. “Just wondering whether there are male and female versions.”

“Why should there be?”

He scratched his head. “Well, not every Yuuzhan Vong could have your shape.”

Elan glanced at Vergere, squatting nearby, and the two traded cryptic smiles. Vergere’s disguise amounted to no more than a loose-fitting garment that concealed her feathered torso and reverse-articulated legs. There wasn’t much that could be done about her exotic face, but with so many folks displaced from the Outer Rim, immigration and customs officials were getting used to seeing new species every day.

“Is there something wrong with my shape, Showolter?” Elan asked at last.

“Quite the opposite.” He laughed awkwardly.

“But surely you object to my facial and torso markings.”

“Frosting,” he said, trying to make it sound like a joke.

She tipped her head and regarded him frankly. “Perhaps you have the makings of a Yuuzhan Vong—despite your reluctance to assume the ooglith masquer.”

“I doubt it. Though I might go as far as getting myself tattooed.”

Her smile straightened. “If you think that the Yuuzhan Vong process is less painful, you’re dead wrong.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Sacrifices have to be made.”

“Oh, indeed they do, Showolter.” She let the remark hang in the air for a moment, then added, “But I’m afraid my breath might offend you. It’s somewhat contaminated—”

“From the food,” Vergere interrupted. “We’re not accustomed to eating so much processed nourishment.”

Showolter glanced at her. “Sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about that.” He appraised the concealing abilities of the ooglith masquer and gave his head a bemused shake. “A nerf in taopari’s clothing,” he muttered.

Elan’s fine brows beetled.

“A play on a saying,” he explained. “A taopari in nerf’s clothing—a beast disguised as a grazer to infiltrate the herd.”

Elan’s eyes brightened in revelation. “So I’m a grazer in beast’s clothing.”

“I was thinking of the assassin your people sent.”

“Of course you were.”

Showolter cleared his throat and handed her undergarments, a simple dress, a jacket, and shoes. “Anyway, here’s your outfit.”

Elan examined the items one by one. “Who am I supposed to be, Showolter?”

“My wife. We’re refugees, displaced from a planet called Sernpidal, traveling with our servant.”

“That would be me,” Vergere said, “as ever.”

Elan looked from Vergere to Showolter. “I’ve no training in wifely duties.”

“No one expects you to live the part. Just play it. We’ll go over the details before we leave.”

“It will be just the three of us?” Elan asked.

“We’ll be met by backup on the ship.”

“Are we going to a more populated world?”

He nodded.

“You will show me the sights?”

“That might take some doing. But, yes, eventually.”

“How delightful.”

Showolter left her to dress and went into the adjoining room to check on the two three-member decoy teams. The two female agents, faces painted in swirls and whorls and already attired in outfits identical to the one he’d given Elan, bore enough of a superficial resemblance to the Yuuzhan Vong priestess to pass for her. But Showolter was less confident about the Mrlssi and the Bimm operatives chosen to pass for Vergere.

“Maybe we’d have been better off employing a couple of Drall,” he commented as he appraised the two costumed aliens.

“What about me, Showolter?” one of the women asked playfully. “Do I fit the bill as Miss Defector?” She struck a theatrically alluring pose and batted her eyelashes at him. “ ‘You will show me the sights?’ ” she said, aping Elan’s voice.

Everyone but Showolter laughed. Instead, he began distributing weapons and last-minute instructions written on self-destruct durasheet.

“Let yourselves be seen in Hyllyard City,” he told the members of the first team, “but don’t overplay things. If there are Yuuzhan Vong operatives about, they’re not going to be easily fooled.” He handed them travel vouchers. “You’ll be departing Myrkr for Gyndine, then traveling on to Thyferra.”

Another set of vouchers went to the male member of the second team. “Myrkr to Bimmisaari to Kessel.”

He slipped a blaster into his shoulder holster. “Everyone stays in touch with HQ through channels. Once our informants have reached Coruscant, you’ll be notified to drop the charade and report in.”

“What’s your bet, Major?” team one’s leader asked.

Showolter pulled down the corners of his mouth and shook his head. “After the recent setback at Ord Mantell, the Yuuzhan Vong might just avoid that sector. Besides,” he added, buttoning his jacket over the holster, “what would they want with a bunch of refugees traveling on a decrepit starliner?”

As the packed-to-the-bulkheads tender pulled into docking position alongside the once magnificent luxury liner, Han suddenly realized what C-3PO had been trying to tell him back on Ord Mantell.

Of all ships, he said to himself as the vessel’s faded and battle-scarred legend came into view. The Queen of Empire.

Originally owned and operated by Haj Shipping Lines, a company whose loyalty to the Empire and the Alliance had varied in response to which side had the most to offer, the Queen had been the vessel of choice for passengers traveling between Corellia and Gyndine—with numerous ports of call en route—and occasionally Rimward as far as Nar Hekka, in Hutt space.

Slightly larger than an Imperial Star Destroyer, the ship was capable of carrying tens of thousands, but instead had restricted its passenger list to a mere five thousand, so as to provide unparalleled comfort, exceptional service, and more diversions than anyone had a right to savor. Species-specific pools, spas, restaurants, shopping malls, climate zones, and exercise rooms, tonsorial parlors for the hirsute and buffing stations for the smooth-skinned, jizz lounges and null-g ballrooms, casinos, observation blisters, and amusement areas … all on more decks than could possibly be explored on a single cruise. The plushest of her many nightclubs had been the Star Winds lounge, where fifteen-limbed Rughjas had played the finest in swing-bob, and affluent passengers had danced the margengai-glide till all hours.

In her heyday, the Queen had rivaled the older Quamar Messenger and the Mon Calamari starliner Kuari Princess and had been the template for newer vessels, such as the Tinta Palette and Jewel of Churba. But frequently the target of pirates, a magnet for meteors, and once stranded in hyperspace for five days, the Queen had fallen on hard times.

Han had never been aboard, but he had heard all about the ship from Lando, who had met Han’s first love, Bria Tharen, aboard the Queen. Bria was by then a high-ranking member of the Corellian resistance, and Lando, his usual dapper self.

Han was still deep in recollection when he transferred to the liner, and it wasn’t until he was aboard that he grasped just how far the Queen had fallen.

While he and a handful of others actually held tickets, the ship was overwhelmed with keelrunners, casualties of war, and refugees previously stranded on Ord Mantell and the Wheel and now on their way to various Colony and Core worlds, thanks in large part to Leia’s efforts.

A babel of languages and a dizzying amalgam of smells, the Queen’s once grand ballrooms and lounges had become temporary camps, where folks of a hundred different species huddled inside makeshift tents and shelters, carefully safeguarding children, pets, or what little foodstuffs and belongings they possessed. Among them roamed guards and soldiers, settling disputes over deck space or alleged theft, or breaking up vicious fights born of plain and simple discrimination. Also circulating were droids, vendors, and hawkers—many protected by bodyguards—charging exorbitant prices for quick-prep meals, derma supplements, dubious pharmaceuticals, and tickets to the portable refreshers that lined some of the passageways.

Picking his way among everyone, Han followed deck routing lines to the sour-smelling, cramped compartment to which his ticket entitled him. Perching himself on the edge of the tiny, swaybacked bed, he considered his situation. The cabin space didn’t bother him; Bilbringi was only two jumps distant, and the Queen was scheduled to arrive within three ship days. Once there—where Han had contacts and acquaintances—he would snoop around for Reck or other members of the Peace Brigade, and perhaps even get a lead on what had happened to victims of the Yuuzhan Vong attack on the Jubilee Wheel.

He dozed for a few moments and awoke ravenous—no surprise, in that he hadn’t eaten anything since bar snacks in the Lady Fate Casino.

Ticketed passengers were supposed to be afforded exclusive privileges to both an upper-deck cafeteria and the only restaurant that hadn’t been converted into living spaces for the refugees. But crowding had overtaxed whatever controls had once been in place, and the cafeteria had been set upon by near-starved passengers. By the time Han arrived, only limited quantities of food remained and there wasn’t a utensil to be found. It had come down to using hands, claws, pincers, or whatever foraging appendages nature had bestowed.

Han was assessing whether any of the grime on his hands might be toxic when he remembered the survival tool Anakin had given him—the one Chewie had made—which, remarkably, after all that Han had been through on the Wheel, was still clipped to his belt. And sure enough, the tool contained a fork attachment.

Han prized the three-tined utensil from its clever recess and edged into the crowd surrounding the buffet table. Closing on the warming trays, he saw that only one piece of nerf steak remained—an overdone, gristly piece at that—but he wasn’t about to pass it up. As he reached forward and speared it, however, a talonlike nail attached to a somewhat velvety, five-fingered hand lanced the steak at the same instant.

Han whirled and found himself face-to-face with the male Ryn in whose company he had escaped the Wheel. The prehensile-tailed alien was sporting the same vibrantly colored culottes, vest, and jaunty beret.

“Ha!” the Ryn yapped in amused surprise. “I told you I’d see you around!”

Han grimaced. “Around five years from now would have been more to my liking.”

“Ah, but you can’t fight fate, my friend.”

“I can try,” Han snapped. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Why, the same as you: traveling forward.” He cut his large eyes to the thin slab of meat. “So who claims the prize?”

“I guess we share it,” Han said in a rankled tone. “Providing you eat the half you stuck your fingernail into.”

The Ryn laughed. “And folks say there are no honest beings about.”

Han transferred the steak to an inexpertly washed plate, and the two of them found opposing seats at a nearby table, among a mixed group of Sullustans and Bimms.

“Droma,” the Ryn said, extending a hand as he was sitting down.

“Roaky Laamu,” Han told him, reluctantly shaking hands.

“I have to say, Roaky, you look a lot better than when I saw you last.”

Han scratched at the rectangle of synthflesh Leia had applied to his forehead. “The marvel of bacta. Wish I could—”

“—say the same for you,” Droma completed.

Han slapped the tabletop and leaned forward angrily. “You and I need to come to an arrangement. I don’t know the trick to how you do it, but from now on you’re going to keep my thoughts to yourself, understand?”

“Quite a challenge,” Droma mused.

“That’s your problem.” Han stared at him for a moment. “Just how do you do it?”

“Why, haven’t you heard that all Ryn are mind readers and fortune-tellers?” Droma asked facetiously.

“Yeah, and I’m a Jedi Knight.”

Droma laughed. “Now, that would be a stretch.”

Han frowned and used the survival tool’s knife blade to saw the steak in half—its blackened underside bearing the stamp of the provider, Nebula Consumables.

With obvious hesitation, Han forked a small portion into his mouth. Droma watched Han’s face as he chewed—or tried to.

“Not what you expected?”

“I expected edible,” Han mumbled around the piece. “That bad?”

Droma borrowed the survival tool to saw a bite-size portion from his half.

Han pushed an empty saucer toward him. “You can spit your teeth in here.”

Droma chewed for several moments before politely taking the piece into his cupped hand and dropping it under the table.

Han forced a breath. “Look, what do you say we try the restaurant—my treat.”

Droma grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”

They left the cafeteria and walked a short distance along the promenade deck to a crowded dining room that had managed to retain some of the grandeur long surrendered by the rest of the Queen. As they were about to be seated, however, a Klaatooinian maître d’ intervened.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he told Han, “but we can’t serve the … Ryn.”

Han showed the heavy-lidded, long-jawed humanoid an incredulous look. “What, do you think you’re working on the Tinta Rainbow? This is a refugee ship!”

The maître d’ sniffed. “We still have our policies.”

Han’s nostrils flared and he cocked his arm back, only to have Droma restrain him.

“A fight won’t change anything,” Droma advised, all but hanging from Han’s biceps.

“Except my mood,” Han growled.

“But not our appetites.”

Han lowered his arm and snatched a menu from a passing waiter. Scanning it, he jabbed his finger at a chef’s specialty and thrust the menu into the maître d’s long-fingered hands.

“Two of these—to go.”

The Klaatooinian looked down his nose at Han, then hurried off, returning shortly with the requested items.

Han and Droma took the packaged meals to tattered deck chairs in the observation bay and ate without conversation as the Queen maneuvered out of Ord Mantell space, accruing velocity for the jump to lightspeed. Starlight shone on the badly damaged outer ring of the Jubilee Wheel. Han was determined to keep thoughts of Roa and Fasgo from his mind—at least until Bilbringi.

Sated, he leaned back in the chair and locked his hands behind his head. “Where are the Ryn from?” he asked while Droma was licking his fingers clean. “Originally, I mean.”

Droma smoothed the ends of his white mustache. “A world in the Core, but even we Ryn don’t know which one.”

“Were you forced to leave?”

“There are two schools of thought. The first has us descended from a tribe of ten thousand musicians donated to a nearby world that was bereft of artists. The second has us descended from warriors deployed against an Inner Rim threat. Our language contains many military terms, such as our word for non-Ryn, which has linguistic ties to the word civilian.”

“How’d so many of you wind up in the Corporate Sector?”

“We were essentially chased there by circumstance. After leaving the Core, the Ryn learned farming, metal-working, and other skills, but suspicion followed us everywhere. With forged documents of safe passage, we were allowed to settle on remote worlds in Corporate Sector space. It helped that our healing techniques, borrowed from many disparate groups, saved the life of an important Authority executive.

“Still, our nomadic ways, our fondness for secrecy, our lack of written records—all for the sake of self-preservation—persuaded others to believe us black mages or stealthy thieves. We were said to feast on living flesh, and in some sectors laws were enacted that made it legal to hunt, brand, or kill us. We were blamed for the crimes of others. Our native language was outlawed, and many of us were sold into slavery or made breeders for slave children.”

Soberly, Han recalled the Ryn on the Wheel who had approached the Happy Dagger, and the pair that had approached him personally in the Bet’s Off, regarding onward passage to the Core.

“How did you end up on the Jubilee Wheel?” he asked.

“I was among a caravan of Ryn ships that had left the Corporate Sector for the Lesser Plooriod Cluster when the Yuuzhan Vong pushed into the Ottega system and destroyed Ithor.”

“You’re a professional pilot?”

“A fair one,” Droma said, “as well as a scout and allaround spacer.”

“So what happened after Ithor?”

“Our ships were scattered, as were our families. I’ve been searching for my clanmates ever since, including a sister and several cousins.”

“Tough,” Han said.

Droma nodded. “But what about you, Roaky? You handle a ship as masterfully as a starfighter pilot—or a successful smuggler. What brings you out here?”

Han took a moment to collect his thoughts. “I’m more a mechanic than I am a pilot. Taking time off from normal life to figure some things out.”

“So you, also, are trying to return to your family?” Droma said.

Han looked at him. “Maybe I am.”

From the restaurant came the strains of “Smoky Dreams,” a song that had been perfectly matched to Bria Tharen’s whiskey contralto, and one she would often sing.

“The song reminds you of something,” Droma said, observing Han cannily.

Han smiled without showing his teeth. “Good old days.”

“How old?”

“Old enough to be good,” Han told him.