FOURTEEN

In Ryn City’s dormitory, with all thirty-seven Ryn gathered around them and waiting breathlessly, the two humans—Tall and Short—appraised the completed letters of transit. The forgeries had required almost four Ruan days of clandestine work, with almost everyone contributing in one way or another. Where Gaph was skilled at line drawing, R’vanna excelled at calligraphy. Many of the females had seen to mixing and applying the colors, and even Melisma had lent a hand by proofreading the passenger names and scrutinizing the letters for imperfections.

She stood between Gaph and R’vanna now, Sapha’s infant—quiet as a skimp for a change—balanced on her hip. The stuffy air of the dormitory was so tense that when Tall finally pronounced the letters “perfect,” it was as if fireworks had gone off.

Everyone exhaled in relief and grinned broadly. Melisma handed the infant to one of the other females and gave Gaph and R’vanna tight hugs of joy.

The humans waited for the Ryn to calm down. Displaying one of the sheets of durasheet, Tall showed Gaph an appreciative look.

“I see you’ve already listed yourselves.”

Gaph puffed out his chest in theatrical pride. “That’s because we knew you would find them impeccable.”

Tall nodded and handed all the letters to Short, who placed them inside a beat-up alloy case.

“We’ll submit everything to Salliche Ag later this morning. They’ll drag the process out for a day or so. But assuming everything goes as planned, you should be prepared to leave on the day after tomorrow. How’s that sound?”

Instead of answering, Gaph raised his hands over his head, made a clicking rhythm with his tongue, and began to dance, cross-stepping and turning slowly as he moved about the room. In a moment, everyone was clapping and clicking in time and joining him in celebration.

Melisma could hardly believe their good fortune. In two days they would be headed clear around the Core to Abregado-rae!

Apparently in dire need of beauty sleep, Randa hadn’t asked for the Ryn as expected. By Skidder’s reckoning, two standard days had passed before the Hutt summoned them. Later that same day, however, Skidder was delighted to find the six Ryn already in the yammosk tank when he and the other captives were led into the hold.

Slipping into the gelatinous liquid and taking his assigned place at one of the tentacles, he gave Sapha a meaningful look but said nothing.

The session began as usual, with the captives striving to induce the yammosk—by lulling the creature into a state of tactile elation through caresses and massage—to urge the dovin basal to drive the ship to greater speeds. While those sessions had become less demanding psychologically, they were still physically exhausting, and by the time Chine-kal returned the count to normal many of the captives were bent double over the tentacles, straining for breath and trying to rub the soreness from their hands, arms, shoulders, and chests.

The important thing was that Chine-kal was pleased with their efforts, which meant that there would be no more speed work for the remainder of the session.

When the commander’s circuit on the tank rim had taken him 180 degrees from Skidder, the Jedi threw Sapha a quick glance and spoke under his breath.

“You met with Randa?”

She gave him the faintest of nods. “We just finished with him.”

“You did as I asked?”

“Against our better judgment. But, yes, we did as you asked.”

“How did he react?”

“With palpable concern. He dismissed us almost immediately, probably to confer with his bodyguards and advisers.”

Skidder’s eyes narrowed in covert pleasure.

The moment had come to talk to the yammosk. In previous sessions, Skidder had drawn on the Force only enough to grant the creature access to his surface thoughts and emotions. The ease of the bond had brought the yammosk back time and again, and on each occasion Skidder had given the creature a bit more of himself, as reinforcement. Now he had to reverse the flow and speak directly to the yammosk, as it obviously believed it had been doing with him.

He had been practicing the necessary Force technique since the Ryn had first told him of their meetings with the Hutt. With no more effort than it had taken to slip into the nutrient fluid in which the yammosk floated, Skidder went into a light trance.

The goal was to convey through images that Randa Besadii Diori was plotting against Commander Chine-kal. Skidder had run through the deceit so often in the past two days that the images unreeled before him like some HoloNet drama. Immediately the tentacle draped almost tenderly across his shoulders began to twitch, then tremble.

Then all at once the appendage tightened its hold on him. At the same time, and throughout the tank, the tentacles fastened to other captives dropped away, slapping the fluid with enough force to send nutrient slopping over the rim and onto the floor of the hold.

Several captives screamed in alarm as the yammosk’s convoluted body stiffened. Skidder instantly broke mental contact and ducked out from under the tentacle’s grip. But that only prompted the creature to twist toward him, as if to fix him in its gaze. Skidder, Roa, Sapha, and some of the others had the foresight to submerge themselves in the nutrient, but a dozen others were hurled clear out of the tank by the yammosk’s counterclockwise whirl. Fasgo was among the latter group, and he was hurled farther than the rest, his already weakened body slammed with bone-breaking force into the yorik coral bulkhead, where it stuck fast for a moment, then began a slow tumble down the scabrous surface to the floor.

Some of the longer tentacles made a sudden grab for Skidder as he resurfaced, but he back-somersaulted out of the liquid and onto the rim walkway. Frustrated, the yammosk reared up, then flattened itself, extending its reach to the edge of the tank. The tentacles flailed and slapped against the coral grating, but Skidder deftly avoided them by hopping from foot to foot and executing flips that sent him over their slimy top sides.

Elsewhere in the hold, Chine-kal and the guards had been thrown into utter confusion. They raced around the tank, making futile attempts to calm the creature, convinced for the moment that Skidder was the victim rather than the instigator.

The Jedi front-flipped to the deck, landing on his feet, but the guards weren’t about to cut him too much slack. He could have avoided or defeated the ones who rushed him from all sides, but with nowhere to run he quickly decided that his purposes would best be served by playing the panicked captive, fearful for his life.

He pretended to struggle, throwing some of the guards aside with the strength that panic affords. Ultimately, though, he let them get the better of him, and sank to the deck under their hold, shrieking, wailing, and gesticulating to the yammosk.

“It tried to kill me! It wants to kill me!”

Having lost its fury, the war coordinator was bobbing on the waves its own actions had stirred. Many captives were pressed to the rim of the tank. Most of those flung outside by the creature’s abrupt spin were picking themselves up from the deck, dazed but not seriously hurt. Except for Fasgo, who was sprawled lifelessly in an expanding pool of blood.

Even Chine-kal seemed wary as he approached the yammosk. Skidder had to believe that not all the creatures developed as planned, and that despite the bioengineering that went into them, some could be flawed, as was sometimes the case with skips and other examples of Yuuzhan Vong organic technology.

Seeing or perhaps sensing the commander’s approach, the yammosk extended two tentacles to him, then a third, which the yammosk curled around Chine-kal’s neck. The commander’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he might have collapsed except for the support of the tentacles. Then, blinking back to consciousness, he turned and stared wide-eyed at Skidder.

Skidder couldn’t begin to guess what the yammosk had related about Randa, or about Skidder himself. But the words that flew from Chine-kal were the last thing he expected to hear.

“A Jedi!” The commander eased out of the yammosk’s embrace and approached Skidder. “A Jedi!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Skidder saw Roa and Sapha hang their heads in defeat.

Chine-kal stood before Skidder, shaking his head in both disbelief and wonderment. “A valiant effort, Jedi. Truly inspired. But what you failed to realize is that yammosks are not grown but spawned. Each passes the sum total of its learning on to the next.” He glanced at the creature. “This one’s progenitors have had experience with Jedi.”

Chine-kal turned back to Skidder and rested his hands on Skidder’s shoulders. “But be proud, Jedi, for you have pleased me greatly. In fact, you will be my gift to Warmaster Tsavong Lah, who will one day arrive to govern Coruscant.”