At the moment the clustership's commander was completing a circle on the grated walkway that ran around the lip of the yorik-coral basin. Concentric to the basin stood a company of lightly armed guards.

 

"For all the revulsion it seems to invoke in some of you, the yammosk is an extremely sensitive creature," he was saying. "One effect of its powerful desire to bond is empathy of a high order, which later culminates as telepathy, of a sort. As part of its early training, the yammosk is conditioned to regard select dovin basals as its children, its brood-the same dovin basals that provide thrust for our starships and the single-pilot craft the New Republic military refers to as coralskippers. When, then, we enter into engagements with the forces of your worlds, the yammosk sees its children as threatened and attempts to coordinate their activities to minimize loss."

 

Chine-kal came to a halt close to where Skidder and the others stood, and gestured to the ceiling. "The darker blue of the throbbing arteries that enter the yammosk just above the eyes is linked even now to the drive of this ship, because the yammosk is still in the process of familiarizing itself with the dovin basal. The kinder you are to the yammosk, the more affection you show for it, the better you make it feel, the better its link with the dovin basal, and the better the ship performs."

 

The commander pivoted to face one of the membranous walls. In a blister visible to all the captives sat a pulsing, heart-shaped organism.

 

"Here you see a small dovin basal, approximate in size to the ones housed in the noses of the coralskippers. Its color indicates how well you are succeeding at your task, and its current pale red tells me that you are doing reasonably well, but not as well as you might. So what we're going to do is increase the pace of our strokings in time with the count provided by the dovin basal. If we're successful, the ship will respond in turn. So let us begin ..."

 

Skidder braced himself. It wasn't so much that the h andwork itself was fatiguing, but intense and constant tactile contact with the tentacles quickly left everyone exhausted, almost as if the yammosk was feeding off the captives' expended energy to somehow enhance itself. It was easy enough to refuse participation, but holding back led only to someone being singled out and punished.

 

As the dovin basal began to pulse more rapidly, the captives increased the speed and force of the strokings and kneadings, struggling to find a rhythm. The pulses grew even more rapid; the manipulations grew more urgent and frantic. The count quickened once more. Many of the captives were breathing hard, some of them wheezing. Rills of sweat coursed down faces and arms. Those who couldn't sustain the pace collapsed, doubled over atop their assigned tentacles, or slid down into the gluey nutrient. But the rest had found a collective beat the yammosk responded to by sending ripples down its tentacles.

 

Skidder could almost feel the clustership surge.

 

Then the dovin basal slowed and gradually returned to a gentle pulsing.

 

"Good," Commander Chine-kal said at last. "Very good."

 

Skidder swallowed hard and calmed himself. Sapha and Roa were panting, and Fasgo looked delirious.

 

Chine-kal began another circuit on the organic walkway. "As some of you have already learned, battle coordination is only one of the yammosk's talents. When I told you earlier that its empathy bordered on telepathy, I was not overstating things. Also as part of its training, the young yammosk is conditioned to establish a cognitive rapport with the commander in whose custody the yammosk will serve. In fact, this yammosk and myself are already on familiar terms. But we're going to attempt something that has never been done-the truly 'extraordinary' part of this joint endeavor. We wish the yammosk to become familiar with you-with all of you-so that we might bring this invasion to a speedy and relatively painless conclusion."

 

Skidder glanced at Roa. "Did you know about this?"

 

The old man returned a grim nod.

 

"As the yammosk becomes more accustomed to your touch," Chine-kal was saying, "it may wish to touch you back, especially on the chest, upper back, neck, and face. You will allow it to do so. It may take no interest in some of you; with others it may find a deep affinity. In either case, I caution you not to resist its telepathic probes, for you risk injuring yourself as much as the yammosk. Resistance could very well result in madness or death. Laugh, cry, scream if you must, but do not resist."

 

"He's not kidding," Roa said with sudden solemnity. He looked intently at Sapha, then Skidder. "Try to keep your mind blank, otherwise it will pursue your thoughts like a predator chasing the first meal of the day. That's where you can lose your way. Believe me, I've seen it happen more than once."

 

Skidder had been doing his best to hide his Jediness, his strength in the Force, the events that had motivated him to be captured, his wish to avenge his fallen comrades. Faced with Chine-kal's revelation, however, he suddenly couldn't help but recall what Danni Quee had told him of the way the Yuuzhan Vong had used a yam-mosk to break Miko. Nor could he suppress his urgency to make contact with his fellow Jedi and apprise them of the enemy's latest plan.

 

He turned slightly to gaze at the yammosk's eyes, and those ink-black organs seemed to gaze back at him. The tentacle beneath his hands rippled, and its blunt tip rose from the nutrient to wrap around Skidder's shoulders.

 

Roa, Sapha, and the others fell back in surprise.

 

"Why, Keyn, you fortunate soul," Roa said after a moment, "I do believe the yammosk has taken a liking to you."

 

 

EIGHT

 

 

From the rear of Lorell Hall on Hapes, Leia was a bright white speck against the blue-black of the night sky, visible through the towering panoramic windows at her back. Rising at a sharp angle from the ramparts of the sandstone bluff that dominated the capital city, the assembly hall enjoyed a breathtaking view of the Transitory Mists and, just now, four of the planet's seven moons. So seamless was the illusion, that people seated in the lower-tier seats might have easily imagined themselves aboard a space vessel, advancing on the star that was Ambassador Organa Solo.

 

"Esteemed representatives of the Hapes Consortium of worlds," she began in a voice that surrendered none of its resolve even in the farthest reaches of the hall. "Eighteen years ago, following the New Republic's conquest of Imperial Center, I came before you to solicit financial support for a fledgling government bankrupted by war and plagued by an insidious virus that was killing thousands of nonhumans with each passing day.

 

"That visit unlocked a gateway between our respective regions of space that had been sealed for the previous three thousand years but has remained open ever since. In fact, not long after my initial visit, the Consortium graced Coruscant with a stay, during which you bestowed upon us treasures we had scarcely dreamed existed-rainbow gems, thought puzzles, and trees of wisdom, along with a dozen Star Destroyers you had captured from Imperial warlords who had sought to intrude on your domain.

 

"It was thought then that the New Republic and the Consortium might enter into an alliance through matrimony-though destiny had other unions in store for the would-be partners in that marriage."

 

Gracious laughter and hushed exchanges swept through the audience, and scattered clapping modulated to extended applause.

 

Leia took the opportunity to glance behind and to the right, where Prince Isolder was leaning forward in expectation of just such an acknowledgment. Beside him, also smiling and elegantly attired, sat his wife, Queen Mother Teneniel Djo of Dathomir, her fingers sparkling with lava node rings and her auburn hair bound by a dazzling tiara of rainbow gems, dawnstars, and ice moons.

 

Alongside Teneniel sat her mother-in-law, Ta'a Chume, her gray hair elaborately coiffed and only her eyes visible above a scarlet veil. Behind them sat several dignitaries and officials, including the Consortium's ambassador to the New Republic.

 

Coruscant's ambassador to Hapes was seated to the left of the podium, also among sundry dignitaries and officials, though beside her sat the Jedi daughter of Isolder and Teneniel, Tenel Ka. The biceps of her truncated left arm-severed above the elbow years earlier in a light-saber training match with Jacen-was adorned with bands of electrum, and a lightsaber dangled from the narrow belt that cinched her robe.

 

In the wings stood C-3PO, newly polished, and Olmahk, incensed at having been made to wear piped leggings, a dress tunic, and a tight-fitting cap.

 

"My friends," Leia continued as the applause was dying down, "the New Republic and the Consortium have never been anything but allies. But I come before you tonight with a request that is sure to test the bonds of that alliance. And in place of gifts I bring only an urgent warning."

 

A guarded silence fell over the gathering.

 

"Speaking for the New Republic, I respect the high value you have long placed on isolation." Without looking, she gestured broadly at the panoramic window behind her. "Were Coruscant blessed with a heavenly phenomenon as majestic as the Transitory Mists, the New Republic, too, might have chosen a more introspective, self-nurturing course. But sadly that is not the case.

 

"A great shadow has been cast on the galaxy, eclipsing many New Republic member worlds, and a call to arms has been issued far and wide. Though Hapes, Charubah, Maires, Gallinore, Arabanth, and the other worlds that make up the Consortium have yet to be thrown into darkness, that circumstance is unlikely to endure. For so grim is this shadow, so monstrous and far-reaching, it may well have the power to extinguish all light."

 

Leia paused and remained silent until the agitated murmuring quieted. "The source of this shadow lies outside the confines of our galaxy, but the intention of those who cast it is clear conquest-unequivocal and thorough. They are called Yuuzhan Vong, and as I speak they are poised to invade the Colonies and the Core."

 

Again, Leia waited for the murmuring to exhaust itself.

 

"Peaceful coexistence is not an option, for the Yuuzhan Vong seek nothing less than to remake the galaxy in their own image-to have all of us swear allegiance to

 

the gods they worship and in whose name they launched their campaign. To avoid conflict, some worlds have already surrendered. And given what the Yuuzhan Vong have done to worlds that resisted, one can hardly fault anyone for capitulating. But the New Republic will neither bargain nor surrender. The invasion must be halted, and that can be effected only through a unified effort on the part of those worlds that choose freedom over enslavement."

 

Leia planted her hands flat on the podium and let her gaze roam the audience.

 

"I won't mince words. New Republic Senator Elegos A'Kla tried to sue for peace and was brutally murdered. The New Republic Defense Force tried and failed to save Ithor, Obroa-skai, and scores of other worlds. The Hutts have apparently struck a deal with the Yuuzhan Vong that allows the invaders to occupy and utilize Hutt worlds for resources essential to the invasion.

 

"Now I ask the Consortium to decide which course it will pursue.

 

"I do not make this request lightly, for there's a chance, however remote, that the Yuuzhan Vong will leave the Hapes Cluster undisturbed, in which case you will be fighting for a cause rather than survival. If forced, the New Republic will wage this battle alone, but the odds of victory will be greatly enhanced by military support from the Consortium."

 

She took a breath and showed the palms of her hands. "I can promise nothing in return for such support, for the future is uncertain. But I urge all of you to consider carefully whom you wish to have as galactic neighbors, and as well to recall what Emper or Palpatine was able to achieve by dimming the light of so many worlds with his own shadow.

 

"I thank you all for attending to one forced to resort to words to express what her heart contains."

 

The hall couldn't have been more silent if it had been catapulted into deep space.

 

"Delegate Miilarta," Ta'a Chume said, "Ambassador Organa Solo. Ambassador Solo, Lol Miilarta of Terephon."

 

Leia extended her right hand with practiced gracious-ness, and Miilarta shook it. "Charmed, Ambassador," she said, then lowered her voice to add, "I can assure you that Terephon will vote to render aid."

 

Leia smiled with her eyes. "The New Republic thanks you."

 

Miilarta bowed smartly and moved down the reception line. In the formal way that typified such functions, Leia introduced her to the New Republic's ambassador to the Consortium, then turned back to Ta'a Chume, who introduced the equally beautiful female delegate from Ut, the world that had sent a song on the occasion of the Consortium's visit to Coruscant.

 

Standing behind Leia, C-3PO whispered into her right ear, "Delegate Miilarta brings the count to thirty-one worlds, Mistress. You are effectively halfway to completion."

 

Leia glanced down the reception line, which-with husbands, wives, mistresses, and children-wound nearly to the grand entrance of the Fountain Palace, home to the Hapes royal family.

 

"Tiring of the formalities, Ambassador?" Ta'a Chume asked from behind her veil.

 

Leia turned slightly to regard her. "Not at all."

 

"You mean to say that you don't find the process somewhat-how shall I put it?-antiquated?"

 

"Actually, it makes me think of Alderaan."

 

"Alderaan? You surprise me, Leia. Equating a former cynosure of democracy to a matriarchy founded by pirates. What can you be thinking?"

 

Leia smiled to herself. "In the interest of getting things done, the New Republic had dispensed with ceremony. But I sometimes miss the pomp and circumstance of the Old Republic, and Hapes feels like a fond memory frozen in time."

 

The scarlet half-veil kept secret Ta'a Chume's expression, but her tone of voice belied a bemused grin. "Why, how sweet of you to reduce our way of life to mere nostalgia."

 

"You mistake my meaning, Ta'a Chume-with purpose, I think." Leia swept her eyes over the reception room. "This might have been my life, if not for the Empire. The grandeur, the propriety . . . the intrigues."

 

Ta'a Chume's eyes narrowed. "Ah, but it could easily have been yours, my dear. It was you who chose Han Solo over my son."

 

Leia looked at Chume'da Isolder, who stood tall, impeccably dressed, and incurably handsome at the head of the reception line. Yes, she told herself, / chose a two-fisted rogue without a credit to his name over a scion of pirates with pockets deep enough to finance his own war. And thank the stars for that. Childhood memories were one thing, but examined in the light of middle age they surrendered some of their charm. Leia could no more imagine herself a proper princess than she could an actress or an entrepreneur. She glanced over at Teneniel Djo-hands folded in front of her and chin lifted in regal deportment- and shuddered at the thought of standing in Teneniel's thousand-credit slippers.

 

And yet even while she was thinking it, apprehension nibbled at her contentment. With Han off on his own, distant in more ways than one, the future they forged had grown formless and clouded. She hated having to worry about him, but in fact, she missed him terribly, and the trappings of royalty, the glance down a path not taken, left her feeling cold and alienated.

 

"Archon Thane," Ta'a Chume was saying, "Ambassador Organa Solo. Ambassador Solo, Archon Beed Thane of Vergill."

 

Robust, fully bearded, head and shoulders taller than Leia, Thane was one of the Consortium's few male delegates. He glowered as he stepped in front of her. "Ambassador Solo," he said, slurring his words. "The infamous Jedi."

 

Ta'a Chume stiffened. "I would caution you to keep a civil tongue, Archon. Or have you perhaps sipped too freely of the drink we provided?"

 

Thane nodded in a bow. "Your pardon, Most Revered Ereneda," he said, using the title reserved for Hapan queen mothers, past or present. "Your generosity has certainly undone me."

 

Leia reached out with her feelings. Thane wasn't drunk; he was merely acting drunk. "I am not a Jedi, Archon," she told him. "As to my infamy-it is certainly your prerogative to think what you will."

 

He swung to her. "Spoken like a Jedi calmly, in full possession. A statement weaker minds might be inclined to embrace as the full truth."

 

"Careful, Archon," Ta'a Chume seethed under her breath. "I'm certain you don't wish to cause a scene."

 

Leia folded her arms across her chest. "A scene is precisely his wish, Ta'a Chume. Why deny him his fun?"

 

Thane vouchsafed a thin smile. "I happened to be on Coruscant when you went before the senate to deliver the same speech you made us sit through tonight. How it must have vexed your Jedi nature to be ignored."

 

"Perhaps you didn't hear me the first time, Archon-"

 

"If he has a problem with the Jedi, he can address his concerns to me."

 

Tenel Ka was suddenly standing alongside Leia, her hand resting lightly on the rancor-tooth-inlaid grip of her lightsaber. Querulous and stubborn by nature, Tenel Ka had always been quick to take on a fight, and just now her gray eyes were boring into Thane's.

 

But the archon stood his ground, smiling nastily. "Why, it's the Dathomiri who rejects her Hapan heritage, yet deigned to save the royal family from the machinations of Ambassador Yfra." His gaze moved up and down the reception line. "Isn't this the happy group."

 

A crowd had begun to form around Thane, and conversations throughout the vast room began to subside. Out of the corner of her eye Leia saw Prince Isolder making a direct line for the center of the commotion.

 

"We have only the ambassador's word that the Yu-uzhan Vong can't be dealt with," Thane was telling everyone within earshot. "And if what she says about forming a united front is true, why is the New Republic divided about where to deploy its fleets and to which systems it should render aid?" He turned through a circle as he spoke. "Is this what we want for the Consortium-a factioned leadership? As archon of Vergill I say we remain neutral until such time as the invaders make certain their plans for the Consortium, either by word or force of arms."

 

He gestured toward Leia. "She comes to us, asking a favor and bringing only the gift of a warning. Why not the gift of the quick-recharge turbolaser technology the New Republic has withheld for so many years?"

 

"That'll be enough, Thane," Isolder said angrily. "This isn't the time or place for a political debate. If you can't abide by the rules of decorum-"

 

"You'll toss me out of your palace?" Thane cut him off. "You'd sooner host the descendants of those Jedi who killed your ancestors than someone who dares speak the truth in your presence?"

 

"Enough," Isolder snapped.

 

But Thane was far from finished; he played to the crowd once more. "He prefers the company of a daughter who has denounced her Hapan heritage ..."

 

Tenel Ka took a forward step, only to be blocked by her father.

 

"... and a speaker of half-truths like Ambassador Solo-"

 

Demonstrating uncanny speed and precision, Isolder backhanded Thane across the face, knocking him into the crowd and drawing blood from his lower lip. Instantly Isolder's longtime friend and former bodyguard Captain Astarta was at his side, flinging a thick braid of red hair over her shoulder and positioning her hands to parry or strike, as need be.

 

Two of Thane's supporters had rushed to take him by the arms and stand him on his feet, but now he threw them aside, wiped his hand across his mouth, and snorted a laugh at Isolder.

 

"The spurned suitor to the rescue."

 

Leia's heart sank. She could feel Isolder battling to control his rage. As angry as she was at him for allowing himself to be provoked, she couldn't help but dread Thane's next move.

 

"My seconds will call on you in the morning, Chume'da Isolder," the archon of Vergill said with complete sobriety.

 

Isolder returned a formal nod of assent. "My seconds will be waiting to greet them."

 

"Thus begins the schism," Ta'a Chume said in a sad, quiet voice as Thane and his supporters headed for the door.

 

 

NINE

 

 

"Punch it, Droma!" Han yelled as he veered the Falcon into an abrupt bank.

 

Muttering nervously to himself, Droma boosted power to the sublight drives and maxed the throttle. "We'll be fine venturing into Hutt space, you said. You used to do a lot of contract work up and down the Sisar Run, and Sriluur was like a second home, you said. Nothing to worry about, you-"

 

"Quit griping and give me an update on those ships!"

 

Droma swung to the display screen of the ship's friend-or-foe authenticator, which showed seven bezel-shaped icons closing fast on the Falcon's aft. "Yuuzhan Vong, all right."

 

Han glanced at the display. The scanners limned images of what might have been asteroids save for the distinctive bulges that were cockpits and the pitted noses characteristic of weapons emplacements and dovin basal housings. "Coralskippers."

 

"Coordinates for the jump to Nar Shaddaa coming in."

 

"Belay that," Han countered, throwing switches on the console. "There's no shaking those skips. Route power to the rear deflector shields and lock in a course back to Sriluur. I'd rather deal with them in atmosphere than out here."

 

Droma quickly applied himself to the task. "At least we won't have as far to fall."

 

"Thanks for the encouragement."

 

The Falcon whipped through a half-twisting loop, and the curve of the dun-and-ecru-colored world ballooned into view. Terrain-following data said they were traveling northward, looking out at a slice of the northern hemisphere just east of the planetary date line.

 

"Skips don't perform well in gravity," Han assured. "Have to rely on the antigrav capabilities of the dovin basals."

 

As if they had heard him, the enemy pilots began firing at extreme range, molten-gold comets streaming from the projectile and plasma launchers in the bows of their small craft. Two of the missiles connected and, even though weakened by distance, were powerful enough to rock the larger ship. The Falcon's sensor suite began screaming.

 

"Rear shields holding," Droma reported while he activated countermeasures and distortion systems. "For now."

 

Han took a steadying breath, vised his right hand on the throttle lever, and rammed it home. The light freighter surged into Sriluur's upper atmosphere, trembling as it continued its oblique dive. With arrant scorn for the planet's protective wrapping, the Yuuzhan Vong crafts plunged after.

 

"See what I told you?" Han exclaimed. "They stick like epoxy!"

 

The ship's indicators railed in protest as the Falcon plummeted into denser air, rolling and corkscrewing to evade the deadly fire that sought her. All caution forgotten, Han sharpened the angle of descent, sloughing control in exchange for added speed.

 

"You've got the bridge!" he told Droma.

 

Droma threw him a panicked glance. "What?"

 

Unfastening the straps that secured him to the pilot's chair, Han stood, spun on his heel, and started for the main ladderwell. He didn't make it past the cockpit hatch when ship-rattling impacts aft threw him to the deck and forced him to rethink the idea of getting to one of the gun turrets.

 

"Enable autotracking for the quad lasers," he said in a rush as he was scrambling to his feet. Buckling back into the chair, he donned a headset and began to call up targeting data on the weapons control display screen. "Let's see if we can't even up the odds."

 

Droma reached for the joystick that controlled the Falcon's belly gun while Han took hold of the controls for the dorsal gun. Data began scrolling across the respective screens. Han bracketed a coralskipper in the targeting reticle and squeezed the trigger on the control grip.

 

The enemy craft swallowed the bolt whole.

 

He pounded his fist on the console. "We've gotta give them more to worry about than laserfire!"

 

Abruptly he rolled the Falcon onto its back while Droma was still firing the belly gun. In an effort to keep up, the lead coralskipper drew deeply on the capabilities of its dovin basal and accelerated.

 

Again, Han brought the reticle over his target, but the coralskipper sped out of his sights in a flash.

 

He left the firing to Droma momentarily and peeled the ship away in a sweeping descending bank. Projectiles slammed against the rear shields, and plasma streaked between the ship's mandibles. Han rerouted power to the forward deflector and again increased the angle of their descent.

 

They ripped through a filmy blanket of high-altitude clouds and went spiraling downward. Far below them ocean and desert lay side by side. Storm systems shrouded Sriluur's western horizon, and to the north an expansive brown haze smudged the terrain.

 

Droma glanced at the meteorological sensors. "That's a sandstorm!"

 

"How about that," Han said. "Some wishes do come true."

 

The words had barely left his mouth when the lead coralskipper dropped with mind-boggling velocity and was suddenly beneath the Falcon and firing up at her, plasma geysering from its gun emplacements.

 

Han pulled out of the spiral, yanked the throttle, and threw the ship up and over the coralskipper directly on his tail. A molten bolt from the craft below caught its squadron mate full on. The coralskipper shuddered as hunks of yorik coral flew in all directions. Then an interior explosion burst from the crystalline cockpit, and the crippled ship went into a helpless free fall, condemned to death by gravity.

 

The destroyed coralskipper's wingmate veered and glued himself to the Falcon's tail, battering it with projectiles and refusing to be unseated, despite a slew of daring turns and evasions Han took them through.

 

Han went for a pushover, but not in time. Something hit the Falcon like a hard clap on the back. Fighting with the controls, he succeeded in righting her, only to emerge from an end-over-end roll to find three more coralskippers attached to the ship as she entered the sandstorm.

 

The bristles on Droma's back stood up. "Another hit like that and you may as well plow us into the sand and let the Falcon be our gravestone!"

 

Projectiles raced past the outrigger cockpit. With the Falcon's Quadex power core roaring, Han pushed the ship to its limits, jinking and juking as the coralskippers continued to rake fire at them. He dropped the Falcon away in a power dive, leaving Droma struggling to adjust thrust bias and avert disaster as enemy missiles ranged closer.

 

All at once a mountain loomed before them. Han torqued the ship to starboard so forcefully that both he and Droma nearly sailed from their seats. The lead coralskipper pilot pursued them ferociously, obviously unable to hold the Falcon in his sights but firing anyway, perhaps in the hope of shaking Han's concentration.

 

Without warning, a plasma bolt sizzled through the overtaxed rear shields. A muffled explosion sounded from aft, followed by the sibilant hiss of the ship's fire-suppression system. An acrid smell drifted forward on exhaust fan currents.

 

Han sniffed and shot Droma a wide-eyed glance. "What was that?"

 

Droma's eyes roamed over the console telltales. "Power converter."

 

Han winced. "Of all the rotten luck!"

 

He utilized more of the ship's amazing speed to improve their lead and leapt deeper into the swirling haze. The three coralskippers decreased velocity, waiting for the Falcon to come across their vector, but instead Han poured on all power, climbed, looped, and came around behind the trio.

 

Droma fired instinctively with the belly gun. With the dovin basal of the trailing ship too stressed to handle defense as well as guidance, the laser bolts sneaked through. The widespread burst caught the craft right on the nose, blowing it to nuggets.

 

Han hooted triumphantly as he sheered off and settled calmly into kill position behind the second craft. The coralskipper pilot, realizing the position he was suddenly in, climbed slightly, unintentionally placing himself in the overlapping field of fire between the Falcon's upper and lower batteries.

 

"Money Lane!" Han shouted. "One hundred credits to whoever nails him!"

 

"You're on!" Droma said.

 

Simultaneously, the two of them tightened their fingers on the trigger. The quad lasers loosed storms of red darts that peppered the rear of the enemy craft and perforated the cockpit, disintegrating the ship.

 

Han and Droma howled their joy as Han steered through a corkscrewing dive, zipping through the far-flung remains of the exploded ship. Swooping past the lead craft, Han inverted the Falcon and took her back into the storm.

 

Where it could be glimpsed at all, the land was dark red and studded with monolithic rock towers that were the sandblasted and wind-eroded remains of volcanic upthrusts. And yet despite their size, the swirling sand made the tors almost impossible to see.

 

Eyes on the terrain-following display and making the most of the Falcon's maneuverability, Han aimed deliberately for the closest obelisk. Faking a climb, he stood the ship on its side and swerved to starboard while Droma triggered bursts from the belly gun. Unsecured items throughout the ship flew from their perches, crashed into bulkheads, or were sent rolling along the deck plates of the ring corridor. But two well-placed laser bolts caught the coralskipper at the cockpit seam, splitting it in two, as if struck by a chisel in the hands of a master stonemason.

 

Still, the three remaining coralskippers clung doggedly, chomping at the Falcon's tail. Nap of the ground, Han weaved through a forest of storm-obscured spires

 

and wind-sculpted stelae. The engines moaned and the ship vibrated as if on the verge of flying apart. Hiking power to the rear shields, he snap-rolled, then stood the Falcon on its side once more to narrow her profile as plasma streaked past them to both sides.

 

Droma lashed his tail around the seat to keep from being strangled by the seat harness. "At least warn me when you're going to do that!"

 

Han leveled out and maneuvered through a ludicrously tight turn, feathering the engines until the Falcon was at a near stall, then shunting power to the thrusters and throwing the ship into a vertical reversement. Swerving to evade Droma's fire, the trailing coralskipper flipped out of control and careened straight into an outcropping, shattering to bits.

 

The Falcon's thrusters flaring, Han pulled up sharply, climbing out of the storm at high boost.

 

Neither of the surviving pair of fighters followed them back up the well.

 

They collapsed into their chairs as the stars lost their twinkle and swarmed around them as pinpoints of light.

 

"Nice shooting," Han said after checking in with the threat assessor one final time.

 

Droma returned the grin. "Nice driving."

 

The Falcon bucked. Indicators flashed and the console came alive with warning tones. Han and Droma fell silent once more and turned to the painful chore of assessing just how much damage the ship had sustained.

 

"The hyperdrive is viable but responding erratically," Droma said a long moment later.

 

Han nodded glumly. "Must have suffered collateral damage when the power converter got hit."

 

Droma tugged at one end of his drooping mustache.

 

"We might be able to make Nar Shaddaa. It's difficult to tell."

 

"No," Han said. "We can't chance it."

 

"Do we return to Sriluur?"

 

Han shook his head. "I doubt we'll find the replacement parts we need. Besides, I don't want to risk running into those coralskippers again."

 

Droma called up star charts. "Kashyyyk, then. Two quick jumps and we're there."

 

Han ran his hand over his mouth. "Not a good idea." When Droma didn't respond, he said, "It's not what you think. I can handle the memories. It's just that Chew-bacca's family still consider themselves responsible for my well-being, and I can't face that right now."

 

"So where to?"

 

Han studied the displayed star charts and grinned, more to himself. "A little out-of-the-way place I know, where they'll have everything we need."

 

"Everything Han Solo needs," Droma thought to point out.

 

"Maybe you're right," Han said. He turned slightly to regard Droma. "Think you can handle playing captain for a while?"

 

On Coruscant, in the new office that had come with her unexpected appointment to the Advisory Council, Senator Viqi Shesh supervised the two labor droids she had tasked with rearranging the furniture.

 

"Turn the desk catercorner to the window," she instructed them as she moved about the room.

 

The identical humaniform droids manipulated the hoversled on which the desk sat. When the desk was in place, they turned to her, seemingly eager to see her pleased by the results. But she wasn't.

 

"No, no, all wrong," Shesh said, shaking her head, then running a hand through her lustrous mane of ink-black hair. "Put the desk back where it was and move the conform chair beneath the window."

 

The pair of droids looked crestfallen. "At once, Senator," they responded in unison.

 

Shesh lowered herself into an antique armchair from her native Kuat and glanced around the office, smiling slowly as she took in the spacious room. Well-appointed without being ostentatious, the room enjoyed a breathtaking view of Commerce Way and the New Republic Obelisk. With a bit of work, it would become the most elegant chamber in the building, one that would make a lasting impression on all who entered.

 

Not bad for someone who had entered the political arena only six short years ago, Shesh told herself. But she had expected no less than this from the start, and she anticipated a great deal more in the coming years, despite the fact that her appointment to the Advisory Council had failed to meet with unanimous endorsement.

 

Several would-be political pundits had accused Chief of State Borsk Fey'lya of attempting to win the support of wealthy Kuat. Others had denounced Shesh for allowing herself to be seduced by power, and accused her of turning her back on the very things that had fueled her rapid rise. Under Fey'lya's thumb-so the fretting went-what would become of her impassioned concern for the needy, her economic patronage of disenfranchised worlds, her outspoken praise for the Jedi Knights and all they stood for?

 

Shesh's smile broadened as she considered the questions. In the end, they showed how mistaken everyone was about her, and how successful she had been in fostering illusions.

 

The office comm sounded. "Senator Shesh," her secretary said, "Commodore Brand has arrived."

 

Shesh glanced at her watch. "Admit him," she answered.

 

She rose from the chair, smoothed the black skirt that sheathed her long legs, and ordered the labor droids out of the room. By the time Brand entered she was settled behind the desk.

 

"Commodore Brand," she began, smiling and extending her hand across the desk. "How delightful to see you."

 

A rigid, gloomy functionary, with the inward-turning gaze of one who sees only his own truth, Brand took off his cap, shook her hand as decorously as he could, and tried to make himself comfortable in the tight confines of the armchair.

 

Shesh gestured broadly to the office. "Excuse the mess. I've only just moved in."

 

Brand's eyes raced about. "Congratulations on being named to the council, Senator."

 

Shesh feigned solemnity. "I only hope I can measure up to everyone's expectations."

 

Brand leaned forward. "War speeds the promotion of those best equipped to lead. I'm certain you will surpass everyone's expectations."

 

"Why, thank you, Commodore." Shesh paused briefly. "To what do I owe the honor of your visit?"

 

Brand cleared his throat meaningfully. "The Corellian situation, Senator."

 

Shesh nodded. "The reenabling of Centerpoint Station. In my opinion, a judicious decision."

 

"Then you're not concerned about possible . . . repercussions?"

 

"An armed and dangerous Corellia, for example? Of course not. A well-defended Corellia benefits the entire Core."

 

Brand regarded her for a long moment. "Yes. But what if I were to tell you that even more might be gained by inducing the Yuuzhan Vong to attack Corellia?"

 

Shesh raised an eyebrow. "Are you in fact telling me that, Commodore? Because if you are-and notwithstanding that I sit on the Security and Intelligence Council-I would be obliged to bring this matter to the attention of the Advisory Council immediately."

 

"The Defense Force intends to do just that, Senator," Brand said in a rush. "Unfortunately, however, we find ourselves in something of a dilemma."

 

"A dilemma," Shesh repeated.

 

"Assuming first that we could succeed in luring the Yuuzhan Vong to Corellia, we must ensure that we can defeat them-soundly. And while we wouldn't want to tip our hand by massing ships at Corellia, we would need to pull from Bothawui and a host of similarly defended worlds to amass the required armada."

 

Shesh took a moment to respond. "You're concerned that the Advisory Council would refuse to sanction any actions that would imperil Bothawui and the others. And yet, to accomplish your goal, it would have to appear as if Bothawui were being defended to the disadvantage of Corellia."

 

Brand almost grinned.

 

She appraised him openly. "I see that I've read you correctly. Though I still wonder why you think it necessary to bring this to my attention."

 

Brand held her gaze. "Should the matter go to a vote, the Defense Force would want to make certain that Bothawui wins out."

 

Shesh grinned. "But, Commodore, if the Yuuzhan Vong are routed at Corellia, wouldn't those who voted in favor of Bothawui be seen in disfavor?"

 

"Perhaps. But any vote tendered in the interest of the greater good would be seen as enlightened."

 

Shesh fell silent for a long moment. "A moment ago you said that this entire plan rests on the assumption that you can entice the Yuuzhan Vong to attack Corellia. As I understand it, you hope to accomplish this by leaving Corellia essentially undefended, in the hope that the enemy takes note of that fact. But wouldn't it be more profitable if word got out about what you're doing? For its technological powers alone, Centerpoint Station would be an irresistible target for destruction."

 

Brand tugged at his earlobe. "This isn't something we can simply announce over the HoloNet, Senator."

 

Shesh laughed shortly. "There are better lines to the Yuuzhan Vong than the HoloNet." She gave it a moment, then added, "The Hutts. If they had even an inkling of your plan, they would certainly apprise the Yuuzhan Vong, if only in the interest of safeguarding their future."

 

"But the New Republic has broken off diplomatic relations with the Hutts. To communicate with them at this point-"

 

"The Hutt consul general is still on Coruscant. I could pay him a visit and let slip a few things."

 

Brand stared at her. "You would do that?"

 

"I would. But in return-in the event the true purpose of my visit ever came to light-I would want it known that the Defense Force asked me to intercede."

 

"You want deniability," Brand said.

 

"Irrefutable deniability, Commodore."

 

He took a moment, then nodded. "I think that can be arranged. We could say that we were merely feeling the Hutts out."

 

"Just so."

 

Brand smiled. "You should have gone into the military, Senator. You would have made a brilliant tactician."

 

"The military?" Shesh snorted in derision. "I don't mean any disrespect, Commodore, but why would I want to be the one who fires the weapon when I can be the one who decides at whom the weapon is pointed?"

 

 

TEN

 

 

The size of a Victory-class Star Destroyer, the bulk freighter Starmaster hung above the inert Twi'lek home-world, Ryloth. Pods of vessels surrounded it-tenders, gunboats, and shuttles-some as smooth as marine creatures, others as boxy and graceless as the freighter itself. Anchored in the umbra of the great ship floated a Ubrikkian luxury yacht. Also in shadow, and closing steadily on a rectangular docking bay, moved a lunette-shaped craft launched from Ryloth's miserly zone of inhabitable twilight.

 

In a lower-deck compartment forward in the freighter, two Rodians monitored the approaching crescent on a display screen, switching to an interior view of the docking bay as the small craft disappeared from sight.

 

"Is that his ship?" the Twi'lek pacing behind them asked when the craft had penetrated the bay's magnetic containment field and landed. Like almost everyone else aboard the Starmaster, the trio were wearing jumpsuits inflated by large pouch pockets.

 

"His ship," one of the Rodians scoffed. "He has dozens of ships. Let's wait and see who disembarks."

 

Three human males and a female appeared on the craft's extensible boarding ramp. Moving with lithe economy, the first two men might have been brothers, though the taller one's face was hideously scarred where the other's was slim and angular. Dark-haired and willowy, the woman also moved with care, but there was a coiled wariness to her step and a vigilant gleam in her eyes. The last man out had an air of confident nonchalance. In one of inherited entitlement, the elevated chin and pocketed hands might have been perceived as arrogance, but he wore refinement well, as only one who had earned it could. In contrast to the shin-high spacer's boots and long cloaks affected by his confederates, he was dressed in silk and leather.

 

"That's him," the other Rodian said, indicating the latter male with the tap of a long, sucker-equipped finger against the display screen. "That's Karrde."

 

The Twi'lek positioned his thick tattooed head-tails over his shoulders and leaned between the Rodians for a closer look. "You're certain?"

 

The one who had made the identification twitched his short snout. "If not, it's either his twin or a clone."

 

The Twi'lek straightened. "I'll alert the boss."

 

Hurrying through the compartment hatchway, he en tered a large hold, clamorous with activity. Stacked high throughout the space were alloy shipping crates recently ferried up Ryloth's well from Kala'uun Spaceport. Two-legged binary loadlifters supervised by masked Twi'lek foremen were arranging the crates for further shipping and off-loading, while utilitarian-looking asp droids stenciled the crates with port-of-call information and applied laser-readable labels. Despite the forceful draw of overhead exhaust fans, dark motes danced and swirled in the recycled air.

 

One hand clamped to his mouth, the Twi'lek threaded his way through the maze of stacks, arriving ultimately at a laboratory isolated from the hold by tall perma-plas window walls. Inside, two humans wearing goggles, rebreathers, and environment suits were assessing the quality of a fine black powder sampled from an opened shipping crate bearing the corporate logo of Galactic Exotics, alleged to contain edible fungi. The stockier of the pair removed his mask and goggles to reveal bulging eyes in an otherwise bland face.

 

"He just arrived," the Twi'lek reported. "Docking Bay 6738. Two men and a woman accompany him. They are clearing contamination and control now."

 

"You're certain it's him."

 

"Certain. But we'll run an identity scan just in case."

 

The man peeled off elbow-length gloves, slipped out of the environment suit, and settled himself at a display console. "Keep the cam and scanner feeds open so I can see and hear for myself."

 

"Will you be informing Borga?"

 

The man considered it. "We'll see."

 

The Twi'lek took the same route back to the compartment. By the time he arrived and was peering over the shoulder of the Rodian closest to the screen, Karrde and his companions were literally at the door.

 

"Positive identification on Karrde," the Rodian said after studying the scanner readouts. "No information on the other men, but neither one is armed with blasters. The scanner matches the woman to Shada D'ukal, a known associate of Karrde's." The Rodian looked at the Twi'lek. "Lethal, even without weapons."

 

The second Rodian lifted a blaster from his hip holster, checked the charge, and primed the weapon.

 

"Unnecessary," the Twi'lek told him. "They'd be fools to try anything."

 

The Rodian's round black eyes fixed on him. "You pay me to be prepared."

 

The Twi'lek nodded, grinning slightly to show filed teeth. "I stand corrected."

 

"Look," the Rodian's partner interrupted. "He's on to us."

 

The Twi'lek glanced at the display screen in time to see Karrde waving at the optical scanner concealed in the bulkhead above the hatchway.

 

"I still don't understand why Karrde would be interested in dealing with us," the armed Rodian remarked. "He trafficks in information, not spice."

 

The Twi'lek caressed his bulged forehead and moved to the hatchway. "This isn't about spice. But we're expected to hear him out, so that's what we're going to do."

 

He aimed a remote at the hatchway sensor, and the hatch pocketed itself into the bulkhead. Karrde and the others entered, his two male companions hanging back and Shada D'ukal sidestepping into a corner where she could keep a watchful eye on the proceedings.

 

"Welcome, Talon Karrde," the Twi'lek said in Basic. "I'm Rol'Waran."

 

Karrde nodded. "A pleasure." He didn't bother to introduce anyone else.

 

"Your chair," Rol'Waran barked at one of the Rodians, who immediately stood and stepped aside. He waited for Karrde to make himself comfortable. "I'm told that you're interested in procuring product."

 

"Eight blocks."

 

Rol'Waran's normally narrow eyes widened. "A substantial quantity. However, since your past and recent activities are not unknown to me, would you mind explaining why you're suddenly interested in product?"

 

Karrde laughed innocently. "If you're concerned about entrapment or anything of that nature-"

 

"Nothing of the sort," Rol'Waran was quick to assure. "After all, we are only subordinate players in the grand game. But I was given to understand that you had abandoned illegality for activity of a more . . . diplomatic nature."

 

Karrde crossed his legs, resting his ankle on his knee. "The Yuuzhan Vong invasion has rendered obsolete my position as liaison between Bastion and Coruscant."

 

"Meaning, he's unemployed," the shorter of the two men behind him said.

 

"Yes," RoFWaran said, stroking his left lekku pensively. "The Yuuzhan Vong have heaped changes on us, as well."

 

"Not the way I hear it," the same man remarked.

 

"Just what have you heard?" Rol'Waran asked.

 

The man's upper lip curled. "That spice remains a safe bet."

 

Karrde cleared his throat. "What he means is that product has always been a prized commodity, and now, what with more mouths to feed-"

 

"Hard times bring about a need for escape," Karrde's comrade cut him off. "We're all for letting everyone bury their heads in the sand."

 

Rol'Waran cut his pink eyes to Karrde. "So you're interested in going into business."

 

"Assuming that shipment can be arranged."

 

Rol'Waran smiled tightly. "That would, of course, add to the price. Where did you have in mind?"

 

"To begin with, Tynna."

 

An awkward silence fell over the compartment, while Rol'Waran and the Rodians traded covert glances. "Tynna is extremely problematic at the moment," Rol'Waran said at last. "I could arrange shipment to Rodia, perhaps even Kalarba, but you'd have to take it from there."

 

"What about Kothlis or Bothawui?" Karrde said.

 

Rol'Waran shook his head. "Not at present."

 

Karrde loosed an annoyed exhale. "If you can ship to Rodia, can I at least get you to bring it up the run to Corellia? That's the actual destination."

 

Rol'Waran tilted his head to one side. "Again, I'm afraid we have a problem."

 

"What's the problem?" Karrde's scar-faced accomplice asked harshly. "We were told you could move spice with impunity under the new terms."

 

Rol'Waran's tiny eyes darted. "New terms?"

 

He was about to say more when the hatch opened to reveal the stout laboratory technician filling the portal. Karrde's accomplices reacted swiftly, but Karrde was just as quick to interpose himself between them and the grinning intruder.

 

"Crev Bombaasa," he said in genuine surprise. "You're a long way from home."

 

"As are you, Talon." Bombaasa looked at Shada. "And the always enchanting Shada D'ukal. As for my being far from home, even life in the Pembric system can grow boring."

 

With an explicit nod, Bombaasa dismissed Rol'Waran and the Rodians, then lowered himself into a chair at the console and deactivated the room's security systems.

 

"If I recall correctly," he said to Karrde, "the last time we crossed paths was in the ThrusterBurn tapcaf in Er-withat. In search of Jorj Car'das, you and Shada required safe passage through the Kathol sector, which I provided to offset an earlier debt I owed to your former partner, Mara Jade. I mention all this by way of stating at the onset that if you're expecting favors-such as product delivery into the star systems you mentioned-be forewarned that I figure we're already even."

 

He glanced at Kyp Durron and Ganner Rhysode, then smiled at Karrde. "So why have you come, Talon? And don't tell me you're serious about going into the spice trade."

 

Karrde looked him in the eye. "I appreciate your frankness, Crev. The fact is the Yuuzhan Vong have changed the way everyone is doing business. Many of the players remain the same, but the field has been rearranged. In the Rim, former Imperials are fighting alongside New Republic forces. Adversaries of long standing are putting aside their differences for a common cause. Even the Hutts have been forced to relinquish part of their space as a means of avoiding all-out war."

 

Again, Bombaasa glanced at the Jedi. "Yes, the only good thing to come of the war is that it gave Kyp Durron something else to do besides prey on smugglers." He paused briefly to glance knowingly at Karrde's confederates, then sighed. "I thought for certain that would draw a reaction, but I can see that this clearly isn't a moment for levity."

 

"Laugh all you want," Kyp told him.

 

"I can laugh all I want," Bombaasa repeated in monotone, then touched his head theatrically. "Did someone here make me say that?"

 

Ganner placed a calming hand on Kyp's arm.

 

Bombaasa watched the two Jedi, then nodded at Karrde. "You're right, Talon, the lines have certainly been redrawn. Just where that leaves people like you and me has yet to be determined."

 

"Speak for yourself, Crev. I know where I stand."

 

Bombaasa took a breath. "I'm a practical man, Talon. I wish only to survive-and under the best possible circumstances I can arrange for myself. You say your stance is decided. Then suppose you tell me what's on your mind."

 

Karrde's eyes narrowed. "You won't ship to Tynna, Bothawui, or Corellia."

 

Bombaasa linked his hands and rested them atop his prominent belly. "That much is true. And I commend you on your acuity in picking just those systems where we have temporarily suspended operations."

 

"The Yuuzhan Vong are in Hutt space," Karrde continued. "They've already hit Gyndine. So one might reasonably assume that you're merely trying to avoid areas of potential conflict."

 

"Once more I commend you. Why risk shipments by sending them into contested space? Transgression might even prove dangerous to the bearers of those shipments."

 

"Then either you're merely being careful, or you're heeding orders that came down from the Hutts."

 

Bombaasa glanced at the ceiling. "Let's just say that the Hutts, at this juncture, are in a better position to ascertain which areas are dangerous."

 

Karrde nodded. "I thought so. And how will you justify this conversation to Borga?"

 

Bombaasa's shoulders heaved in a shrug. "I will relate just what happened here. Talon Karrde wanted product delivered into denied areas, so we failed to come to terms." Irony wrinkled his jowled face. "Borga has been expecting just such an encounter, in any case."

 

"Playing both sides, is she?"

 

"Looking out for number one."

 

Karrde could not restr ain a smile. "I won't forget this, Crev."

 

Bombaasa steepled his thick fingers and brought them to his double chin. "Then you might mention me to your friends-as affirmation of just whose side I'm on."

 

"Count on it," Karrde said. "Someday we might all be called to work together-smugglers, information brokers, pirates, and mercenaries-and this strikes me as a good start."

 

The yammosk vessel Creche hung in stationary orbit above the planet Ando. In the ship's grottolike docking bay, Commander Chine-kal and the priest, Moorsh, welcomed Randa Besadii Diori aboard. First to exit the loathsome slipper-shaped Ubrikkian space yacht that had arrived from Ando were the young Hutt's Twi'lek and Rodian retainers, followed by the tusked humanoid Aqualish who comprised his limited detail of bodyguards. Then, propelled by his muscular tail, the Hutt himself emerged, smiling broadly and instantly at home in the cavernous, dimly lighted space.

 

"I see that you are as fond of gloom as we Hutts are," Randa told Chine-kal after he had been announced and introductions had been made.

 

The commander smiled pleasantly. "We favor obscurity when it suits our purpose."

 

Randa attributed the ambiguity of Chine-kal's remark to the inexperience of the Yuuzhan Vong translator. "You must come to Nal Hutta, Commander, and visit my parent's palace. I'm certain you would find it to your liking."

 

Chine-kal's politic smile held. "We've heard much about it, young Hutt. Commander Malik Carr was very impressed."

 

"As Borga was with Commander Malik Carr," Randa replied with courtly poise. "I am eager to learn as much as I can of your operations, so that we Hutts may expedite your needs." His protruding black eyes disappeared briefly behind the membranes that kept them moist. "With so many worlds falling to your superior might, the task of ferrying captives about must be growing tiresome."

 

"The task distracts us from our principal objective," Chine-kal allowed. "Which is precisely why we are as eager to instruct as you are to learn."

 

"Then the sooner we begin, the better," Randa said.

 

"But perhaps you could first show me to my quarters so that I might refresh from the journey."

 

"We have prepared a place for you, Randa Besadii Diori," the priest answered. "On the way, we thought we might introduce you to the ship's most prestigious passenger."

 

Randa pressed his hands together in a gesture of respect. "I would be honored."

 

Chine-kal voiced a brusque command to his guards, who snapped their fists to their opposite shoulders and arranged themselves in an escort formation, some advancing through an iris portal in the hold's biotic bulkhead while others fell in behind Randa and his retinue.

 

They moved deeper into the ship, passing from one module to the next, on occasion lifted by decks that bulged under them like a tongue being raised to the roof of a mouth. Illumination varied, but the bioluminescence of the bulkheads rarely provided more than a faint glow. What did increase was a certain tang in the air, which while not unpleasant tended to irritate the nasal passages and promote the flow of mucus and tears. Lubricious by design, Randa found the conditions most agreeable.

 

Chine-kal brought the procession to a halt in the rank belly of the ship and directed Randa's attention to an aperture in the membranous bulkhead that provided a vantage into an adjacent hold. Below, centered in a circular tank of syrupy liquid, floated a tentacled life-form that could only have been created by the Yuuzhan Vong. Sharing the tank with the creature-and plainly attending to it-stood several dozen captives, anywhere from knee- to shoulder-deep in the liquid. Tended to in kind, a few of the captives were being stroked by the tentacles. In one case a human male was entirely entwined by two of the slender appendages.

 

Randa found himself thinking about certain members of the Desilijic clan who were fond of chaining dancers or servants to themselves. Again his eyes were drawn to the fully embraced human. In the midst of regarding the several beings in close proximity to the human, Randa turned excitedly to his Twi'lek majordomo.

 

"Are those Ryn?" he asked, indicating them with one of his stubby arms.

 

The Twi'lek regarded them and nodded. "I believe they are Ryn, Excellency."

 

Chine-kal followed the exchange and asked for a translation. "Something has caught your eye, young Hutt?"

 

"Indeed, Commander," Randa said. "You have succeeded in capturing a somewhat rare specimen."

 

"To which do you refer?"

 

"You see the human your creature takes such an interest in?"

 

Chine-kal gazed down at the yammosk and its captive attendants. "Keyn, that one is called."

 

"The sharp-nosed bipeds next to and opposite him," Randa elaborated. "And there, at the adjacent tentacle. They are Ryn-an entertaining species, highly prized by the Hutts, though often disparaged by others."

 

"Prized for what?"

 

"They are celebrated for their skill at dancing and singing, but their real talent is prognostication."

 

Chine-kal waited for the translation, then turned to Moorsh. "Did you know of this?"

 

"I did not, Commander," the priest said.

 

Chine-kal cut his eyes to Randa. "They divine, you say?"

 

"Rather astutely."

 

"By what technique?"

 

"Manifold means. I have heard that they can read the future in the creases of the hands, the bumps on the head, the color of the eyes. They sometimes employ a deck of playing cards that are said to have been fashioned by them."

 

"You have heard," Chine-kal said. "Then you have had no direct experience with them?"

 

"Sadly, I have not." Randa smiled. "But perhaps you would be willing to relieve them temporarily of their peculiar duties and judge for yourself? Your creation appears to take little interest in them, in any case."

 

"I confess to being curious about them," Moorsh said in reply to Chine-kal s glance.

 

The commander nodded and turned to a subaltern of the guards. "Have the six Ryn brought to the young Hutt's compartment."

 

 

ELEVEN

 

 

To three sides the sea stretched to the horizon-an expanse of surging teal, frosted with whitecaps and dazzled by daybreak sunlight-and at Leia's back climbed the rocky spires and imposing parapets of Reef Fortress, the Hapan royal family's summer home and stronghold in times of crisis.

 

Against a cool offshore breeze, she hugged herself within the dark-blue wrap of her long cloak and turned through another circle, taking in the island's surf-slapped black-rock shoreline, the majestic fortress, a droid picking wild dewberries, and closer at hand, Olmahk, along with a score of visitors who'd arrived at dawn by dragon yacht to witness the duel between Isolder and Beed Thane.

 

The archon of Vergill and his seconds were gathered on the square of lush lawn that was to serve as an arena for the contest. As the offended one, publicly dishonored by Isolder's reckless backhand, Thane had been entitled to choose the weapons from a wide assortment that included everything from vibroblades to sporting blasters. The location, however, had been selected by Isolder, who had passed the previous night in Reef Fortress, along with Teneniel Djo, Tenel Ka, Ta'a Chume, Leia, and a minimal staff of advisers and retainers.

 

Though the designated hour was drawing near, Isolder and his second, retired Captain Astarta, had yet to show themselves. Plainly disquieted by the lapse in etiquette, Tenel Ka was unable to remain still for more than a moment.

 

Leia could feel the young Jedi's agitation clear across the lawn. It was here at the fortress that she, Jacen, Jaina, and Chewie's nephew Lowbacca had braved carnivorous seaweed and Bartokk assassins to foil Ambassador Yfra's plot to overthrow the monarchy. Here, too, Tenel Ka had finally come to accept the mutilation she had accidentally suffered at Jacen's hand, preferring to make do with her stump rather than employ a prosthesis-even for a swimming race.

 

As the memories of what Jacen had told her of those events were supplanted by concerns for the present, Leia saw Tenel Ka gaze up one of the hedge-bordered paths that climbed to the fortress and quickly walk away from the lawn. A moment later Ta'a Chume appeared where the natural path debouched into the lawn, her graying auburn hair falling from beneath a tall conical cap, to which was affixed a triangle of gauzy white fabric that veiled her lower face. Notwithstanding Tenel Ka's efforts on behalf on the Hapan monarchy, the former matriarch refused to condone her granddaughter's decision to embrace the life of a Jedi over that of a future queen mother.

 

Ta'a Chume tracked Tenel Ka's deliberate departure, then she turned and, spying Leia, gathered her long gown in one hand and headed directly for her.

 

"I trust you slept well, Ambassador," she said as she approached.

 

"I'd like to report that I did, but in fact, I didn't sleep a wink."

 

"This business with the duel," Ta'a Chume said in dismissal. "Don't worry."

 

Leia stared into her green eyes. "You're that confident of your son?"

 

"You're not?"

 

"I've seen the best bested, Ta'a Chume."

 

The former queen mother studied her. "I have to wonder to whom you're referring. Your father, perhaps, bested by your brother; or my son, bested by the smuggler you helped make a hero."

 

Leia refused to take the bait. "Isolder shouldn't have allowed himself to be provoked."

 

"But, my dear, what other course of action was open to him after Thane insulted you?"

 

"He could have allowed me to respond."

 

Creases formed at the corners of Ta'a Chume's eyes. "My dear Leia, here on Hapes noblewomen are expected to comport themselves as something other than warriors. It has been thus since the founding days of the Consortium. Blame the Lorell Raiders for placing us on pedestals."

 

"I'm not a Hapan noble, Ta'a Chume. And I've been called far worse than a liar."

 

"I'm sure you have."

 

Leia bristled, then regained her composure. "I'm more concerned about unity among the Consortium worlds than I am about defendin g my honor."

 

Ta'a Chume forced a world-weary sigh. "There can be no unity without honor, Leia. And speaking of honor and dishonor, I've been meaning to inquire about your charming rogue of a husband. Why isn't he here with you?"

 

Leia held Ta'a Chume's piercing gaze. "Han is contributing in his own way to the war effort."

 

"What a curious answer." Ta'a Chume lowered her voice in feigned intimacy. "I trust there are no troubles at home."

 

"There are troubles everywhere. That's why I'm here."

 

"Indeed." Ta'a Chume fell silent for a moment, then said, "Since your arrival on Hapes I've been meaning to tell you how wrong I was about you."

 

Leia waited.

 

"Unlike the Dathomiri witch's daughter"-she glanced in the direction of Tenel Ka-"you chose against becoming a Jedi."

 

Leia had to remind herself that she was talking with a woman who had not only ordered the murders of her elder son and Isolder's first love, but whose own mother had despised the Jedi almost as passionately as Palpatine had. Isolder's grandmother had wanted to see the Jedi extinguished, if only to prevent the resurrection of what she had deemed an oligarchy ruled by sorcerers and readers of auras.

 

"Tenel Ka chose wisely," Leia said at last, "as did your son. Teneniel Djo is perfect for Isolder."

 

Ta'a Chume shook her head. "No, my dear. Their marriage is beset by difficulties. There is talk of Teneniel Djo's returning to Dathomir."

 

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize-"

 

" You would have been perfect for my son. He undertakes this duel as much to demonstrate to me that a man is capable of taking initiative, as to demonstrate to you his continuing affection. That's why, regardless of the outcome of today's contest, you can rely on having my full support in the matter of the Consortium allying itself with the New Republic against the Yuuzhan Vong."

 

Leia was still recovering from the unexpectedness of the disclosure when Isolder, Teneniel Djo, and Astarta strode into view.

 

"With mere moments to spare he arrives," Ta'a Chume remarked on seeing them. "How like him."

 

Trailing the prince and queen mother came staffers and other witnesses, including C-3PO, who hurried to Leia's side.

 

"Mistress Leia," the droid began in a fret, "I had hoped you would decide to spare yourself the torment of having to watch Prince Isolder engage in such an antiquated and obviously vain exercise, in what can only be considered pecking-order politics."

 

Leia frowned at him, thinking of Corran Horn's contest with the Yuuzhan Vong commander Shedao Shai at Ithor. "As the insulted party, I could hardly absent myself, Threepio."

 

"But, Mistress," C-3PO pressed, "do you have any idea of what Prince Isolder and Archon Thane are about to do?"

 

Leia glanced at the lawn where Thane's seconds and Astarta were establishing the ground rules, and the archon and the prince were already donning the sensor-and electrode-studded headgear, power gloves, boots, and body armor that were integral to the contest.

 

"I have some idea," Leia said.

 

The droid tilted his head to one side and flapped his stiff arms. "Then you shouldn't permit yourself to watch. This form of hand-to-hand combat has its origin in a martial art developed by the Lorell Raiders when their chief preoccupation was the capture and distribution of female prisoners. While perhaps not as deadly or as mystical in nature as teras kasi-the 'steel hands' technique taught by the Followers of Palawa in the Pacanth Reach star cluster in the Outer Rim-it is nonetheless-"

 

Leia shushed him. "Isolder spent two years as a privateer," she said quietly. "I'm sure he knows a few moves."

 

"But, Mistress," C-3PO said hopelessly.

 

She silenced him again in order to hear what Isolder was telling Thane as they faced off in the center of the lawn.

 

"Should you win, you will not only have redeemed your honor but earned the right to brag of having defeated the prince of Hapes. Should I win, I gain nothing more than the right to demand that you solicit the pardon of my daughter and of Ambassador Organa Solo for your remarks."

 

Thane sneered at him. "If you'd like to sweeten the pot, Prince Isolder, you need only say so."

 

Isolder slipped his right hand into the power glove and flexed his fingers. "Should I win, I want your pledge that Vergill will support the New Republic."

 

The witnesses gasped. "This cannot be permitted!" someone shouted.

 

"Neither of you has the right!" another voice added.

 

Thane considered it while the arguments continued. "You have my pledge," the archon said at last. "Providing that Hapes will withhold support if you lose."

 

"You bring disgrace on all our Houses!" a witness remarked.

 

Isolder nodded. "You have my pledge."

 

Leia's heart raced.

 

Beside her, Ta'a Chume said, "This has been Thane's goal all along. As Hapes goes, so goes half the Consortium of worlds." She looked at Leia. "You see what my son undertakes for you?"

 

On the lawn, the principal referee raised a red scarf high overhead and let it flutter to the ground. It had scarcely touched the tallest blade of grass when the fight commenced.

 

Hapan tradition dictated that honor duels commence with little fanfare and even less preamble. Leia quickly grasped that it was largely a matter of making sure that everyone had their wagers in place. From what she could gather by eavesdropping on nearby conversations-and Ta'a Chume's avowals to the contrary-Thane was favored to win.

 

Despite his agitation, or perhaps as a response to it, C-3PO insisted on providing commentary, even after the fight had begun. Olmahk, by contrast, was clearly entranced, down on his haunches at the edge of the manicured lawn, his bulging eyes riveted on Isolder and Thane as they circled, feeling each other out with tentative kicks and punches.

 

Like Isolder, Thane was tall and muscular, but his thick legs and broad shoulders made Isolder look positively wiry by comparison. His moves, as he loosened up, suggested both great power and dexterity, and he wasn't timid about showing right away that he was good. He came at Isolder with double- and triple-kick combinations, fired by the same leg, recocking and letting fly without bringing his foot down in between.

 

And he had fast hands, as well.

 

Isolder parried the attack skillfully, but refrained from counterpunching, as if undecided about which offense to employ. Even so, it was obvious to Leia that they were both essentially footfighters, with Thane's style drawing on traditional techniques and Isolder's on straightforward boxing.

 

The rules of the honor duel were known to everyone present, save for her and Olmahk, but Leia understood that the body armor and headgear served a dual purpose. In addition to dampening the bone-breaking and electro-shock capabilities of the gloves and boots, the sensor-studded padding indicated when a contestant landed a scoring blow, by way of a remote receiver.

 

"What an appalling display," C-3PO remarked worriedly. "And I fear it will only get worse, Mistress. Where most opponents agree beforehand to refrain from inflicting serious injury, the prince and the archon waived the usual restrictions!"

 

Leia tried to ignore him. At the same time, she repressed an urge to think aloud, Don't do this, Isolder, for fear that he might hear her through the Force and come undone. Corran Horn's actions at Ithor had been noble, and yet they had failed to preserve the planet.

 

Isolder and Thane worked each other around for several long minutes without scoring, though the punishing blows they rained on each other sounded like the muffled reports of ancient firearms. Exposed flesh reddened and swelled. A punch from Isolder drove Thane clear across the lawn; a front kick by the archon lifted the prince completely off his feet. Then both of them scored in rapid succession when Isolder left himself open to a blow to the head in order to land a powerful twisting punch to Thane's ribs.

 

The rooting of the onlookers was enthusiastic, but nothing like the bloodthirsty tumult professional gamblers would have raised. Inaudibly, Teneniel Djo, Tenel Ka, and some of the advisers intoned calming chants.

 

Leia kept her concern in check by telling herself that what she was witnessing was no different from so many of the lightsaber practice duels she'd seen and engaged in over the years.

 

Isolder and Thane went at each other again, this time at Isolder's lead, with a set-piece attack of left fist, right fist. Thane confidently went for the block and counter against an expected right roundhouse kick, only to realize too late that it was a feint. Isolder cocked his leg back like lightning and again struck him in the ribs. Falling back, Thane grimaced in pain, but managed nonetheless to slip in an off-balance counterkick that caught Isolder unprepared.

 

The primary referee glanced at the remote receiver and declared points for each fighter. With the match a two-two tie and both of them panting, he called for a sudden-death round.

 

"Sudden death?" C-3PO moaned in alarm. "Sudden death?"

 

It was plain that Thane understood how Isolder had set a trap for him. Once more he moved tentatively, though seemingly less out of respect for Isolder's prowess than out of wariness for his talent to deceive.

 

Isolder kept his distance, as well, ultimately forcing Thane to bore in on him. The archon faked a punch, twirled, and cycloned his right foot at Isolder's thigh. Isolder twisted to avoid the full force of the impact, but an agonized yelp escaped him, and everyone realized that he had nearly been incapacitated.

 

The injured leg collapsed under him, and he dropped to one knee, aiming a stiff-armed punch to Thane's mid-section on the way down. Thane anticipated the blow and stopped short, just out of range, then brought one foot around and down in a crescent kick meant to shatter Isolder's extended forearm and open him up for a frontal attack. But Isolder withdrew his arm in time and shoulder-rolled out of harm's way. Shooting to a crouch, he launched h imself at Thane.

 

Thane backed away, windmilling his arms to parry punches and kicks, then stepping to one side and executing a fast one-handed forward flip, right foot extended to smash Isolder in the face.

 

Isolder stooped, catching Thane's lower calf in the crook of the X he formed with raised forearms, then called on his thigh muscles to spring him upright. Thane's planted foot slipped on the grass, and he slammed supine to the ground.

 

Isolder went after him, whirling for a back kick going

 

in. But Thane spun on his shoulders and neatly swept Isolder's feet out from under him. Springing themselves upright, they exchanged lightning volleys of kicks and body punches. Plosive sounds cut the salt air as they alternated in having the wind knocked out of them.

 

Thane's right foot caught Isolder's left forearm just above the edge of the power glove, and Leia was certain she heard bone fracture. It struck her all at once that sudden death could mean just that.

 

Surprised that neither of them had scored, the crowd grew louder, urging each man on. Leia heard Captain As-tarta's voice cut through the din, commanding Isolder to regain focus. Only Leia and Ta'a Chume stood silently now, wrapped in concern.

 

With a deft hop, Isolder reversed his stance to keep his maimed forearm out of the line of fire and launched another counteroffensive. Thane's huge fist tagged him a glancing blow on the side of the head, but the archon received a toe kick to the knee in return.

 

Thane apparently wasn't accustomed to fighting someone his own size, and Isolder made the most of it. Time and again he caught Thane's foot in his upper arm or shoulder or managed to duck his head out of the way. But Isolder appeared to be tiring. With little left to pitch that he hadn't already tried, he again advanced with left fist, right fist, as windup for a right roundhouse kick.

 

Leia's breath caught in her throat. It was the most elementary and binary kind of gamble. Thane had to decide whether Isolder was setting the move up as a feint, or was going to commit to it this time. It came down to whether or not Thane believed Isolder was fool enough to stake everything-his reputation, Thane's promise to side with Hapes with regard to the Yuuzhan Vong, perhaps even the respect of the royal family and Leia-on trying the same trick after it had been compromised the first go-round.

 

Thane set himself for a feint and counter. Isolder let him believe he had chosen correctly by using broken timing-appearing for an instant to be faking-then let fly the intended roundhouse.

 

From the sound of the impact, it was clear that Isolder had planned the kick to connect with enough force to end the match. Even so, he exercised more restraint than Thane probably would have shown. The slap of the boot on the headguard echoed off the black rocks that graced the shore, and the primary referee had one hand up to signal the winning point before Thane had hit the ground.

 

Betting stakes were changing hands even as the two opponents were bowing to each other. Given the added wager, many of the witnesses were beside themselves with outrage, and arguments began to erupt on all sides of the lawn.

 

One to whom success came often, Isolder didn't flaunt his victory. Even the customary embraces he received from his wife and daughter failed to elicit so much as a smile. Archon Thane appeared grudgingly congratulatory, but Leia could see that there would be no lasting peace between House Thane and House Isolder.

 

At the moment, however, that didn't matter. Thane's loss meant at least one more vote on the side of supporting the New Republic.

 

Thane and his seconds began to storm away from the lawn, but before he reached the path that led to the dock, Thane changed direction and angled for Leia.

 

She braced herself.

 

"Ambassador, I will make my formal apology when the Consortium representatives convene to vote on the issue of rendering aid to the New Republic," he began.

 

"Rest assured that I will honor my pledge to stand with Prince Isolder." He scowled, despite himself. "For now I wish only to applaud you for moving the Consortium one step closer to what will no doubt prove to be a catastrophic campaign."

 

 

TWELVE

 

 

Melisma, Gaph, and a dozen other Ryn slogged through the shin-deep mud that had formed in the wake of Ruan's most recent on-command downpour. Conditions in Facility 17 were deteriorating rapidly and no one was smiling, not even Gaph, who was usually unflappingly sanguine in the worst of situations.

 

The camp's overseers had requested that the Ryn report to the familiarization sector, for purposes yet to be disclosed. A facsimile of civilization as defined by any number of Core worlds, the sector functioned as a training and indoctrination ground for those refugees bound for the heart of the New Republic.

 

Despite Salliche Ag's attempt to maroon on Ruan as many refugees as possible, a host of worlds and corporations had similar employment scenarios in mind for the displaced peoples of the Outer and Mid Rims. Optical concerns were seeking species with innate visual acuity, and acoustical concerns sought species with expanded ranges of hearing. Some companies were desirous of nothing more than folks of size and brute strength. Still, most of the refugees had never resided in the Colonies, let alone on Core worlds, and so the need for indoctrination classes meant to bring the culturally deprived up to speed for their new lives.

 

Melisma and the rest trudged past crude buildings and pavilions where Basic was being taught to Ruurians and Dugs. Other structures were devoted to instructive sessions in interfacing with droids, computers, and virtual life-forms; riding turbolifts, drop shafts, and beltways; dealing with bacta treatments, durasheet, and flimsi-plast; the use of comlinks, holoprojectors, and conform loungers; proper behavior in restaurants, theaters, and other public places; and comportment in the presence of the wealthy, the politically connected, or the influential.

 

The Ryn contingent had been directed to structure 58, which was empty when they entered, save for a grouping of rickety tables and chairs and a human female whose eyes bugged out of her head on seeing them. She glanced at the display of a datapad she wore around her neck, quickly composed herself, and asked everyone to be seated.

 

The fact that Melisma and the others opted to sit on the floor undermined the woman's aplomb, which was obviously as flimsy as the furniture, and once again she looked to the datapad for advice of some sort.

 

"You've been asked to report here," she began in Basic, "because an opportunity has arisen that could provide you with transport to Esseles, as well as employment once you arrive."

 

In pure surprise, Melisma turned to Gaph, whose optimism made a sudden comeback.

 

"The job is somewhat peculiar, but as it is the only job offer targeted specifically for your species, I'm certain you'll want to consider it."

 

She cleared her throat in a meaningful way. "Essentially you would be residing in a kind of living museum, where diverse folks coexist, displaying to the intellectually inquisitive or the merely curious the various and sundry elements unique to their species."

 

No one spoke for a long moment; then Gaph asked, "What, exactly, would we be required to do?"

 

"Why, simply to be yourselves," the woman said in an unintentionally high-pitched voice.

 

His former grin abandoned, Gaph glanced at Melisma, then looked back at the woman. "You're suggesting that it would be just like being here-except that we'd have thousands of visitors gawking at us day and night."

 

"Observing," the woman clarified. "Not gawking."

 

Melisma shook her head in dismay. "I'm sorry, but we'll have to decline the offer," she said, speaking for everyone.

 

The woman spent a moment gnawing at her lower lip, then moved to the door to ascertain that no one was about. When she swung around to the Ryn her eyes twinkled in a way they hadn't earlier, and her tone of voice was conspiratorial.

 

"I shouldn't really be telling you this, but Salliche Ag is prepared to furnish you with employment right here on Ruan." She paused to allow her words time to sink in. "I'm certain that some of you have had past experience on agricultural worlds, and that you would adapt easily to both the work and the environment. In return, Salliche Ag would expect you only to sign a contract stating that you will remain onworld for at least the next three standard years."

 

"What does the work pay?" Gaph asked with elaborate enthusiasm.

 

"Salliche Ag will furnish everything you need in the way of shelter and food, and deduct the costs from your wages. The rest is, of course, yours to do with as you please-although the company discourages its employees from actually accepting credits, for fear they might be spent. . . frivolously or gambled away. The last thing Salliche Ag wants is employees who have overspent and have no recourse but to work off the debts they incurred."

 

Gaph slapped his thigh in fabricated delight. "What a sweet deal!"

 

When everyone had stopped laughing, Melisma said, "We're not interested."

 

The woman folded her arms across her chest. "Won't you at least consider the offer? I'm sure you don't want to remain in this camp any longer than you have to."

 

The scarcely veiled threat was still ringing in Melisma's ears when the Ryn filed out of the building some moments later. She didn't know whether to be angry, anxious, or both. Fortune-telling had been earning the Ryn enough credits to purchase decent foodstuffs, but business was already beginning to fall off. Without credits the camp would rapidly become the prison it was meant to be, and in the end she and the others would be forced to accept Salliche Ag's offer.

 

She didn't think she could feel more disheartened, until they arrived back at the Ryn encampment to find two human males waiting for them, no doubt to drive home the hopeless nature of th eir predicament and to sell them again on the wisdom of signing on with Salliche Ag.

 

And yet there was something about the pair that gave her pause. For starters, they were too seedy even for representatives of Salliche Ag. The taller one was gangly and bearded, and his long fingers were t'bac stained. He wore utility coveralls that were a size too small, and his boots were more suited to spaceport work than a desk job. The other man was equally unkempt, with grease under his fingernails and grime on his forehead. Black hair curtained his pale pointed face and fell lanky and unwashed to his shoulders.

 

"Lush as it is, Ruan's a rock like any other when you'd rather be elsewhere," the tall one said to Gaph as he approached.

 

"But every rock has its secret exits," the other chimed in, "even Ruan."

 

Gaph smiled pleasantly. "Yes, and every one of those clandestine egresses requires a toll we can't afford to pay."

 

Tall seemed to take the reply as a good sign. "Then maybe you'd like to earn the toll."

 

Gaph waved the men to a couple of chairs R'vanna had cobbled together. At the same time, he asked someone to bring tea and food.

 

"We represent a concern that provides private transportation to other worlds," Tall explained.

 

"For thousands of credits per passenger," Gaph said.

 

The man nodded. "But believe it or not, there are folks here with more than that to spend."

 

"The problem is," the short man took over, "they lack official permits to travel. Now normally their credits would buy them documentation, as well, but Salliche Ag is making it difficult because they have their own reasons for wanting to keep everyone onworld."

 

R'vanna sighed. "We're aware of those reasons."

 

"Well, then, here's the thing," the first man said. "The business concern we represent has official authority to transport a shipload of paying clients to Abregado-rae, which is accepting exiles."

 

"Abregado-rae," R'vanna said in delight. "A much happier alternative than any of the Core worlds. Positively flush with opportunities."

 

Tall nodded. "No camps, no labor contracts, no fine print. Everyone gets off to a fresh start. But unless we can show our clients' names on official permits of transit, all the credits in the universe won't get any of them off Ruan."

 

Gaph mulled it over. "Then you need a good slicer to enter those names in the database."

 

Short shook his head. "Salliche Ag is on the lookout for slicers. Everything has to be done by durasheet and official seal."

 

Gaph and R'vanna traded knowing looks. "Go on," Gaph said.

 

The humans also traded looks. "It's no secret that you people are good at forging permits and such," Tall said.

 

"Yeah, like the ones you forged allowing you to emigrate to the Corporate Sector way back when."

 

"Unsubstantiated rumors," R'vanna said.

 

Tall smiled. "Even so ..."

 

Gaph cut him off. "Do you have an example of the seal you want copied?"

 

Short opened a case and handed Gaph a square of durasheet bearing an elaborate official seal. "This comes straight from Coruscant. Each letter of transit can list up to one hundred names, so we'd need five of them."

 

Gaph and R'vanna conferred for a moment. "This seal and the calligraphy are intentionally antiquated," Gaph said at last. "We'd need the proper tools, along with the inks and such."

 

Tall shrugged. "Whatever you need." /

 

"What's in this for us?" Melisma asked before anyone else could.

 

The same man shrugged. "That's entirely up to you. Clothing, food, furniture, you name it."

 

She gazed at him. "How about transport off Ruan?"

 

Again, the two men traded glances. "How many are you?" the first asked.

 

"Thirty-seven-including an infant."

 

Tall deliberated, nodding his head slowly. "We just might be able to arrange that."

 

"Only to Abregado-rae, you understand," his partner added. "No alternative destinations."

 

Gaph glanced at Melisma, R'vanna, and some of the others. "Abregado-rae would suit us fine."

 

Tall folded his arms. "Then here's how it's going to work We'll provide everything you need to forge the permits. If we're satisfied that they'll pass muster with Salliche Ag and the spaceport authorities here on Ruan, you've got yourselves a deal."

 

"I am Plaan," Tholatin's Weequay security chief said as he joined Droma and Han in the Falcon's forward hold.

 

Plaan had the thumbs of his big hands hooked into the broad gunbelt that gathered a quilted, knee-length garment the color of Sriluur's desert wastes. His broad-nosed, desiccated face was deeply creased, and dark age spots showed on the almond-shaped bony plate that reinforced his skull from brow ridge to spine. His deep-set eyes gave him a haunted, fearsome aspect. Behind him stood two mean-spirited humans in camouflage combat suits, one cradling a new-generation blaster rifle, the other a twenty-year-old BlasTech E-l 1, which had been the weapon of choice among Imperial stormtroopers. Half a dozen other humans and aliens were inspecting various parts of the ship. Han couldn't make out their muffled comments, but the mere thought of them pawing through his property filled him with rage. It took all the control he could summon to keep from going ballistic.

 

"My first mate, Miek," Droma said, gesturing offhandedly toward Han.

 

Plaan nodded. "Sorry about having to search ship, Captain Droma. Furnished passcodes checked out. But as things are now, even we must take precautions." A being more apt to communicate by pheromones than words, Plaan spoke in a clipped and heavy accent.

 

With the hyperdrive behaving erratically, it had been a long, slow trip to Tholatin, an uninhabited world, save for a deep, almost undetectable rift legions of smugglers had used over the years. The Falcon-going under the name Sunlight Franchise-had been directed to a landing zone on the floor of the forested cleft, but berthing spaces and maintenance areas were located under a ceiling of cantilevered rock at the base of a sheer cliff. Although he had taken heart that the old passcodes had worked, Han was troubled by the motley nature of some of the berthed ships.

 

"You have been to Esau's Ridge before?" Plaan asked suddenly, studying Han with interest.

 

"Not in a lot of years."

 

"Back then, who running things?"

 

Han stroked his beard, as if in hazy recollection. "Let's see, there was Bracha e'Naso. And an information broker named Formyaj-a Yao, as I remember."

 

Plaan nodded. "Long gone, with almost everyone from those days. Left when the Yuuzhan Vong pushed through on way to Hutt space." He glanced at Droma. "Where acquired, those passcodes, Captain?"

 

"From a friend on Nar Shaddaa," Droma said, as Han had instructed. "A human by the name of Shug Ninx."

 

Plaan nodded again. "Ninx is known to us. So you are coming from Nar Shaddaa?"

 

Droma had his mouth open to affirm that they'd arrived from Hutt space when a baritone voice rang out from the starboard ring corridor.

 

"Plaan, get a look at this."

 

Han and Droma followed the security chief into the corridor. Just where the outrigger cockpit branched off, two human members of the search team had discovered the removable panels that covered the secret compartments Han had used for smuggling, in what felt to him like another lifetime. Like Plaan, the two snoops had the rawboned look of mercenaries or pirates rather than smugglers, which jibed with the mix-and-match ships- the uglies-Han had observed in the berthing spaces.

 

Plaan was grinning bemusedly. "Smugglers?"

 

"Now and again," Droma said.

 

"Freelance or for Hutts?"

 

"We're independent contractors."

 

Plaan snorted. "Better ways of earning credits these days. Even Hutts have to take care. With Boss Bunji forced off Jubilee Wheel, not enough glitterstim on Ord Mantell to fill bantha's horn."

 

As he was saying it, a short man wearing mechanic's utilities entered the corridor from the extended landing ramp. "Looks like your ship has seen some recent action," he told Droma. "Whoever you were running from ruined your new anodizing."

 

Droma replied to Plaan's inquisitive look. "We encountered a Yuuzhan Vong patrol. Fortunately, we escaped with nothing more than a damaged power converter and hyperdrive."

 

The mechanic pursed his lips, glanced around, and nodded. "Vintage ship, but I think we can fix you up with the parts you need."

 

Plaan seemed to relax somewhat. "Would not have to worry about Yuuzhan Vong patrols if you knew the right people," he said as he followed Droma and Han back to the forward compartment.

 

Droma glanced at Han before saying, "Knowing the right people is something we've never been especially good at."

 

The security chief uttered a dour laugh. "Perhaps luck is about to change." He walked to the entrance to the port ring corridor, then into the adjacent circuitry bay. "How many passengers this crate carry?" he asked without turning around.

 

"She's smaller than she looks," Han answered, taking a few steps toward Plaan. "Belowdecks she's nothing but crawl space, and even if we packed passengers in like fingerfins, the air scrubbers and oxygen supply couldn't handle more than fifty or so-and then only for a few hours."

 

"Why do you ask?" Droma said.

 

Plaan turned and walked back into the hold. "Many here at Esau's Ridge do contract work for employer who has a direct line to Yuuzhan Vong."

 

Han watched Plaan. "Yeah, a couple of friends of ours were working for a guy who claimed to have a direct line to the Yuuzhan Vong, but when it came down to cases the guy was no help at all. Ever hear of the Peace Brigade?"

 

Plaan nodded slowly. "Outfit of Reck Desh."

 

"Same employer?"

 

"Same," Plaan confirmed. "But in kinds of activities Peace Brigade handled, we steer clear. Many risks. Relocation runs our specialty."

 

"Relocation runs," Han said.

 

"Private transport for refugees eager to escape New Republic camps."

 

Han's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Depending on what you charge for services, you're either a philanthropist or a predator."

 

Plaan laughed. "Because we receive large bonuses on back end , passengers pay only modest amounts."

 

"So this nameless contractor is the philanthropist?" Droma said.

 

"To earn bonuses, contractor requires that we deliver refugees to specific worlds-worlds that end up Yuuzhan Vong targets."

 

Han had to force his mouth to work. "You're recycling them. Refugees pay to leave one camp, find themselves caught up in an invasion, and end up in another camp." He fought down an urge to tear Plaan limb from limb. "And, of course, the Yuuzhan Vong are happy because you're making things all the more complicated for the New Republic relief workers."

 

Plaan shrugged. "Added burden for New Republic. But steady employment for us. Interested?"

 

"We might be," Droma said. "Do you have anything going at the moment?"

 

Plaan made a regretful sound as he cocked his head to one side. "Too bad you not arrive sooner. Some of our people moving a bunch off Ruan very soon."

 

Droma sat unsteadily at the engineering station, determined not to look at Han. "Ruan?"

 

Han glanced briefly at him and began to pace. "Maybe we're not too late to join in," he said, only partially successful at keeping alarm and apprehension from his voice. He turned to Plaan. "How soon can we get the parts we need?"

 

 

THIRTEEN

 

 

In the dank and underlighted hold that served as both mess hall and dormitory for the privileged captives aboard the yammosk carrier, Wurth Skidder placed his bowl beneath the spout of the nutrient dispenser, waited while his allotted share drizzled out, then carried the bowl to his usual spot of deck space, where he lowered himself into a cross-legged posture and forced himself to eat.

 

Like all things Yuuzhan Vong, the container had surely been fashioned from some creature-perhaps from the egg of an outsize oviparous animal-and the spoon, though made of an exotic hardwood, bore no traces of carving or machining and appeared to have been grown with handle and bowl provided. Even the thick, tapered spout of the nutrient dispenser gave all evidence of being attached to some living thing that resided unseen on the far side of the hold's curved and membranous bulkhead.

 

Shortly, Roa and Fasgo joined him on the floor, as had become their habit. Both of them, along with almost everyone else in the hold, looked bedraggled and waterlogged from having had to endure long sessions in the tank with the yammosk. Four captives had died as a consequence of the creature's attempts at mind probing, and more than twice that number had been rendered catatonic. Skidder had survived only by drawing gently on the Force, just deeply enough to maintain sanity without revealing his Jedihood.

 

He was down to his last spoonful of nutrient when Roa said, "Well, look who's returned."

 

Following Roa's delighted gaze, Skidder turned and saw Sapha and her five fellow Ryn entering the hold. Instantly he got to his feet and waved them over, appraising them as they approached. None of the six had been seen since Commander Chine-kal had ordered them away- what must have been standard days earlier. Everyone had wondered about their mysterious disappearance, and Skidder was eager to learn where they had been taken.

 

"To the Hutt," Sapha said in reply to his question as she lowered herself to the floor.

 

Roa's mouth fell open. "A Hutt? On board this ship?" Sapha nodded. "Randa Besadii Diori. The son of a Hutt named Borga."

 

Skidder waited to speak until three of Sapha's companions had moved off to join the food line. "Why is Randa here?" he asked quietly but forcefully.

 

Sapha regarded him for a moment. "It seemed to us that the Yuuzhan Vong are grooming him to take charge of transporting prisoners of war. For sacrifices, perhaps, or some other purposes."

 

"So that's the deal they cut for themselves," Skidder said through locked teeth. "But why were you brought to Randa?"

 

She laughed without mirth. "To tell his fortune. Using Ryn as diviners was once a pastime of the Hutts- amusing to them, frequently fatal to us. When forecasts failed to come true, the diviners were killed in various but always gruesome ways. I grew up hearing tales of such things."

 

Skidder considered it. "So Randa asked you to predict his future," he said at last. "What did you tell him?"

 

Sapha shrugged. "Innocuous things, open to interpretation."

 

"For instance?" Roa asked.

 

"The near future will be a sometimes puzzling mix of pleasures and challenges. He has much on his mind as a result of monumental events that have recently come to pass. The future hinges on his ability to think clearly and see all sides . . ."

 

Fasgo laughed with his mouth full. "I've been told the same things by you people."

 

"And Randa accepted that?" Skidder said.

 

"He seemed to." Sapha gestured broadly to the hold. "We're here, and not to the best of my knowledge slated for imminent execution."

 

Skidder's eyes narrowed with intent. "Did he ask to see you again?"

 

Sapha nodded. "After his beauty sleep. Probably to evaluate our accuracy."

 

"Was Chine-kal present?"

 

"The first time. The commander took some interest in our reading of Randa's body markings and palm lines. On the second occasion, he grew bored. I doubt he'll be there next time."

 

"He's just accommodating the Hutt," Roa suggested. "I suspect that the Yuuzhan Vong consider themselves shapers of the future, not destined for one outcome or another."

 

Skidder was deep in thought.

 

One of the Ryn returned with a bowl of nutrient for Sapha, but she pushed it away in disgust.

 

"The same stuff for every meal, for every species."

 

Fasgo nodded. "One gruel fits all." He eyed the untouched bowl Sapha had set aside. "You going to eat that?" he asked finally.

 

"Help yourself," she told him.

 

He did, ravenously, only ceasing his spooning to remark, "You'll learn to tolerate it. Besides, it's the only way to keep up your strength."

 

"Answer me this," Sapha said. "The Yuuzhan Vong employ organic technology where we use machines, correct?"

 

"Thus far," Roa said.

 

"Then they don't use machines or droids to prepare this stuff."

 

"I wouldn't think so."

 

"And yet I haven't seen any chefs, or any kitchen staff. So who prepares it?"

 

Fasgo stopped eating, his spoon in midair, to exchange glances with Roa. "Critters," he said to Sapha. "Creatures."

 

Sapha gazed at the thin gray gruel. "Creatures cook this?"

 

Again, Roa and Fasgo swapped glances. "In a manner of speaking," Roa said delicately.

 

Sapha frowned. "In what manner of speaking?"

 

Fasgo set the bowl down. "Look, you don't care for the stuff as is. Maybe you shouldn't be wondering where it comes from or how it's cooked."

 

Sapha was about to ask regardless, but Skidder abruptly surfaced from his pensive trance.

 

"Randa has an entourage with him? Bodyguards?"

 

"Some Rodians, Aqualish, and Twi'leks," Sapha said. "The usual mix."

 

"How many bodyguards?"

 

Sapha looked to one of her clanmates, who said, "Ten."

 

"Roughly the same number of guards in the yammosk

 

tank hold," Skidder muttered. He fell silent, then looked hard at Sapha and the other Ryn.

 

"Listen carefully The next time you're summoned, you're going to tell Randa that he's going to be betrayed. He's been lured aboard only so that Commander Chine-kal can sacrifice him." He cut his eyes to Sapha. "You understand?"

 

She and the other Ryn regarded one another in bafflement. "And when that doesn't come to pass? You'll have us all sucking vacuum."

 

Skidder shook his head. "It will come to pass, because I'm going to plant an idea in the yammosk that Randa is going to betray Chine-kal, and that he only agreed to come aboard to free us. The yammosk is sure to alert Chine-kal, and Chine-kal might even want the yammosk to take a peek at what's in the Hutt's head."

 

Sapha shook her head as if to clear it. "People have found unusual purposes for the Ryn, but this ..."

 

Roa frowned at Skidder. "Look, Keyn, just because the creature has taken a liking to you, that doesn't mean you can actually talk to it, much less plant an idea in its brain."

 

Skidder sneered. "You're wrong. I've already been conversing with it."

 

Fasgo choked on his food and made a comical gesture to indicate madness. "Someone's been in the tank too long," he fairly hummed.

 

Roa continued to stare at Skidder. "You say you've been conversing with the yammosk?"

 

"By using the Force."

 

Fasgo broke the protracted silence by saying, with patent disbelief, "The Force?"

 

"I'm a Jedi Knight," Skidder announced, in a way that managed to combine modesty and pride. "My real name is Worth Skidder."

 

"Well, well," Roa huffed, "that certainly answers a lot of my questions about you."

 

"Then I was right," Sapha said. "You deliberately allowed yourself to be captured."

 

Skidder nodded. "At the time I didn't know they had a war coordinator aboard this ship. But one thing is clear they're conveying it to a world they plan to invade and utilize as a forward base of operations. We need to learn that destination, and find some way to get the information to the Jedi or the New Republic military."

 

Roa was the first to respond. "Let's say you do manage to turn Chine-kal and the Hutt against one another. How's that going to help you get what you want?"

 

Skidder was one step ahead of him. "Once I've gained the yammosk's trust, it's going to tell me where we're headed."

 

"Okay," Roa said tentatively.

 

"I'll make use of the yammosk to control the dovin basal that drives the ship."

 

Roa and Sapha traded glances. "And then?" the old man asked.

 

Skidder fixed him with a look. "We mutiny."

 

The Hutt consulate on Coruscant was chaotic. Servants and dozens of hired workers were busy emptying the place of the vast amount of antiques, keepsakes, and collectibles Golga had amassed in his too-brief reign as consul general. Reclining on the couch that occupied the center of the courtyard chamber he had come to think of as home, he could only hope that the galaxy would return to normal in the near future, and that Borga the Almighty might deem him fit to continue serving as Nal Hutta's envoy to the Ne w Republic. Until such time, he would simply have to accept whatever posting Borga assigned him, though it chilled him even to imagine being sent to somewhere like Sriluur, Kessel, or-perish the thought-Tatooine.

 

"Careful with those hookahs!" he said to the three Gamorreans who were crating his waterpipes. "Some of those once belonged to Jabba himself!"

 

He lowered his stubby arms, cursing himself for not having had the good sense to order the Rodians on his staff to see to the hookahs. But they were in the sleep chamber packing away even more personal belongings, and everyone else was too occupied destroying documents, making round trips to the launch platform, or keeping the demonstrators from storming the consulate, as one group had attempted to do only the previous evening.

 

Turmoil had been the order of the day since the Holo-Net had broken the story that Nal Hutta had made a separate peace with the Yuuzhan Vong, and that the Hutts were severing diplomatic relations with the New Republic. Had Borga notified Golga in advance, the consulate could have been quietly closed. Instead the penthouse of the Old Republic-style Valorum Tower had become a target for every Outer Rim refugee on Coruscant, and thus a precarious place to reside.

 

Servants, attaches, and staffers had decamped, including Golga's charge d'affaires. Suppliers had refused to deliver food and other needed supplies. Coruscant Energy had engineered power failures, and Coruscant Water had so reduced the flow that daily bathing in the penthouse's converted fountain had become impossible. The number of bomb threats exceeded one hundred, though no devices had been discovered, and on the HoloNet rumors flew fast and furious, accusing the Hutts of everything from treason to sabotage, with many calling for the arrest of all Hutts, and some advocating a declaration of war.

 

Even now a mixed-species crowd was assembled on the observation balcony of the tower across the city canyon, chanting for retribution, throwing fists in the air, and appealing to the ceaseless flow of air traffic with huge and multicolored Hutt-condemning holoplacards. Early on, Golga had tolerated the strident gatherings, but he had since ordered the transparisteel windows curtained so he wouldn't have to be greeted by the sight of demonstrators each time he entered the chamber.

 

Soon, in any case, the angry crowds would be nothing more than an unpleasant memory. He would be on his way to Nal Hutta, and to diplomatic duties elsewhere in the galaxy. Once more, worries of a posting on Tatooine assailed him, but they were interrupted by the arrival of his Twi'lek secretary.

 

"Highness, New Republic Senator Shesh requests audience."

 

"Now?" Golga said incredulously. "Doesn't Senator Shesh realize that I'm preparing to depart?"

 

"She does, Highness. But she asserts that it is vital that she speak with you beforehand. She asserts further that you will be passing up a unique opportunity should you elect not to grant her audience."

 

"A unique opportunity, indeed. Is this Senator Viqi Shesh of Kuat?"

 

"Yes, Highness."

 

Golga grimaced in derision. "A member of the Advisory Council and the Security and Intelligence Council. Shall I tell you beforehand about this unique opportunity? She is going to ask me to serve as an agent for New Republic Intelligence. She will promise generous compensation for my keeping her committee apprised of what goes on in Borga's court-of who comes and goes, and of what matters are spoken. She will avouch in the strongest terms that the Hutts will ultimately be betrayed

 

by the Yuuzhan Vong, and that Borga will be brought down. She will be quick to assure that the New Republic will one day prevail against the Yuuzhan Vong, and at that time my contributions to their defeat will become public knowledge and I will reap the benefits of my treachery by being awarded a position suitable to my new station in life. Perhaps a palace here on Coruscant, or a political appointment to the world of my choice."

 

The Twi'lek waited until he was certain that Golga was finished. "I should inform her, then, that Your Highness is not interested in speaking with her?"

 

Golga blinked and wet his lips with his fat, pointed tongue. Lending voice to what heretofore had been most private musings had accorded them a sudden credibility. Under the guise of sufferance, he motioned with his tiny hands.

 

"No. Show her in. But make sure she understands that I have a flight to catch."

 

The Twi'lek bowed graciously and left the chambers. When he returned a moment later he was accompanied by a comely, dark-haired human female, on whom even normally drab senatorial garb looked like evening wear. Golga was a Besadii, but he had more than a touch of Desilijic in his veins, which accounted for a certain partiality to human females. Watching Viqi Shesh, he envisioned her dancing for him, or fetching him succulent morsels of living food. Of greater surprise than her beauty was the fact that she had apparently come alone, without so much as an interpreter.

 

Golga arranged himself on the couch and motioned Shesh to the closest of several comfortable chairs. "Never let it be said," he began in Basic when his secretary had exited, "that Golga Besadii Fir is one to allow unique opportunities to pass him by."

 

Shesh smiled with purpose. "I'm glad to hear that, Consul Golga. It simplifies matters."

 

Golga licked his lips.

 

"As you may or may not know, recent information has come to light, indicating that the Yuuzhan Vong intend to attack Tynna."

 

"Tynna? I know nothing of this."

 

"Certain parties thought it odd that no spice was being delivered to Tynna, and they brought this matter to the attention of New Republic Intelligence. Given the Hutts' alliance with the enemy, members of the Intelligence community had to ask themselves whether the suspension of deliveries was perhaps a cloaked message from Borga-a way for her to reveal the intentions of the Yuuzhan Vong without actually saying as much."

 

Golga grappled with what he was hearing. "Clearly you know more about these matters than I do, Senator. In any event, you certainly can't expect me to speak for Borga."

 

"You are her envoy, are you not?"

 

"Yes, but-"

 

"Then don't concern yourself with speaking for Borga. Simply listen as she might."

 

Insulted, Golga had an impulse to have Shesh escorted from the chambers, but then thought better of it. "I'm listening, Senator-as Borga would."

 

Shesh flashed a warmer smile. "Should the intelligence about Tynna prove reliable, one has to wonder if the suspension of spice deliveries to Bothawui and Corellia might signal threats to those systems, as well. Or"-she held up a meticulously manicured forefinger-"whether this is merely what the Yuuzhan Vong would like us to think, while they devise an entirely different attack."

 

She gave Golga a moment to ponder it, then continued. "You see, the senate and the Defense Force are very divided on just this issue. With New Republic fleets widely dispersed to protect the Core Worlds, a decision has to be reached on whether additional ships should be deployed at Bothawui or Corellia."

 

Golga laughed. "Senator, I haven't the slightest idea what the Yuuzhan Vong plan to do next. Furthermore, it is ludicrous to assume that Borga has been made privy to their plans."

 

Shesh crossed her legs and leaned forward. "You can assure me of that?"

 

"I can. Everyone has attached too much import to this so-called alliance. Borga and the clan leaders of the Grand Council wished to avoid a war at all costs. To do so required that we allow the Yuuzhan Vong access to certain worlds in our space-worlds of little consequence- which they intend to mine for resources or remake in some way. Granted, this is a form of aiding and abetting the enemy, but the end result would have been the same had we opted to go to war. We are powerful, but not as powerful as the enemy."

 

"The Hutts managed to hold the Empire at bay," Shesh pointed out. "Delaying the Yuuzhan Vong would have helped."

 

"I won't deny it. But our society would have been destroyed. We have always believed in keeping to ourselves, Senator. We have never attempted to intrude on New Republic space-well, there was that one regrettable episode involving Durga. But other than that, we Hutts have been content to move spice, indulge ourselves with food, drink, music, and dance. We are not warriors, Senator, much less warlords."

 

Shesh's eyes narrowed in thought. "So you are only trying to preserve what you have. You're not actually siding with the Yuuzhan Vong."

 

"We are not."

 

"And should they defeat the New Republic?"

 

"If I may speak plainly, we'll go on as we always have-poorer, perhaps, for not selling spice, or wealthier from selling even more than we do now."

 

"To the miserable, defeated masses," Shesh said, loosing a short laugh.

 

As the statement didn't beg a response, Golga didn't offer one.

 

"I want you to deliver a message to Borga, Consul. Tell her that while the fleets are deployed elsewhere, the New Republic would like nothing more than to see the Yuuzhan Vong attack Corellia. They have a surprise in store-including a big shiny toy that could spell trouble for your new overlords. But tell her also that this information is offered as a means of redressing an earlier wrong. Borga won't understand, but there are those

 

who will."

 

Golga stared at her. "If I didn't know better," he said at last, "I would be tempted to surmise that you are supplying me with intelligence that would be of great value to the Yuuzhan Vong."

 

Shesh shrugged. "Think what you will." "Nevertheless, how do I know that this isn't simply disinformation, designed to make the Hutts look like fools?"

 

Shesh said nothing.

 

"Whichever the case, Senator, this is most unexpected." Shesh's smile was enigmatic. "Who knows, Consul, someday we might be working together. To that possible end, I think we're off to a good start."

 

 

FOURTEEN

 

 

In Ryn City's dormito ry, 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, strain-

 

ing 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 bioengi-neering 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 yam-mosks 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 War-master Tsavong Lah, who will one day arrive to govern Coruscant."

 

 

FIFTEEN

 

 

The tempo of the rousing march that welcomed Supreme Commander Nas Choka aboard the Yuuzhan Vong warship Yammka was kept by warriors with drums, but the theme itself was supplied by a menagerie of bioengineered insects and avians, droning, trumpeting, and whistling from within cages and atop perches situated throughout the great hold.

 

Enormous villip-choir transparencies broke the obsidian monotony of the starboard bulkhead, providing a star-strewn panorama of the anchored fleet, as well as a distant view of the Hutt space world known as Runaway Prince, remade for the sowing of yorik coral, villip shrubs, and other necessities of war. To the ships that resembled asteroids, marine behemoths, and tumbled and faceted cabochons had been added an even more massive and sinister specimen a flattened lapidary orb of glossy black, from the dense center of which spiraled half a dozen arms, as if in dark imitation of the galaxy the Yuuzhan Vong were determined to conquer.

 

Supreme Commander Choka, along with his commanders and foremost subalterns, moved on levitated dovin basal cushions in tiered heights abov e the deck. In advance of them floated four smaller cushions, their diminutive riders screened by flutters-living creatures that resembled squares of patterned cloth. Arrayed on either side of the arriving group stood five thousand warriors dressed in battle tunics and armed with amphistaffs and coufees.

 

Confined to a small space among the starboard-side group cowered two hundred prisoners taken from Gyn-dine and already purified for sacrifice. Bony growths affixed to voice boxes and jaws prevented them from giving voice to their fear.

 

Behind Choka marched troops of his own command, their precision footfalls crushing an ankle-deep carpet of maroon flowers, whose aroma-wafted about by the rhythmic beating of wings-had aroused the insects to song. Their stridulations intensifying and diminishing, the insects sustained notes lifted from an otherworldly scale. One moment the march was fiery and inspiring; the next it was a somber dirge.

 

Opposite the arrival bay, at the far end of the cloyingly perfumed parade corridor, waited Commander Malik Carr and his chief-subalterns, a coven of priests, and off to one side, Executor Nom Anor, all revealed in tattooed and modified splendor.

 

As the train of elite warriors neared the dais, the drumbeats and insect voices ceased and Malik Carr stepped to the lip of the raised platform.

 

"Welcome, Supreme Commander Choka," he crowed, his augmented voice resounding from the arching ceiling and tympanic bulkheads. "The Yamntka and all here gathered are yours to command."

 

A wrathful droning filled the hold. Simultaneously, ten thousand fists snapped crisply to their opposite shoulders in salute.

 

Supreme Commander Choka, military commander of the recently arrived spiral-arm worldship, transferred himself from the dovin basal cushion to an elevated seat at the center of the dais. While the four trailing hover

 

cushions lined up behind him, priests, shapers, and others arranged themselves on the floor to both sides. Only when they were seated did Malik Carr and his contingent follow suit. On the deck the warriors bade their amphistaffs to coil around their bare right arms and dropped ceremoniously to one knee, heads bowed in deference.

 

The drumming and stridulations resumed, playing to the body as well as the ear. With five loud fanfares, some of the insects rested; but heroic bursts were immediately loosed by other insects, as if in reply. The counterpoint continued for some moments. Then, as Choka raised an ophidiform baton of command, the hold fell preternatu-rally silent.

 

"I bring salutations from Warmaster Tsavong Lah," he intoned. "He commends you on the work you have done in preparing the way, and he looks forward to the time when he may join you in battle."

 

Choka's modest stature did not lessen his power. Narrow-hipped but braced by thick, muscular legs, he sat rigidly on the provided chair of carved and polished coral like a statue himself, while black-feathered avians cooled the air around him with their great wings. Facial tattoos, flattened nose, and decurved eyes-above large bluish sacs-afforded him a regal demeanor. His unadorned tunic was offset by a bloodred command cloak that fell from the tops of his shoulders, and rings of gaudy variety grew from his fingers and banded his wrists and upper arms. Black throughout, his long, fine hair was combed straight back from a sloping forehead and reached nearly to his waist.

 

"I, too, congratulate you on your successful harvest," he went on after a moment. "You have acquitted yourselves well. Your captives from Obroa-skai, Ord Man-tell, and Gyndine will bloody your nomination. But before we enact the sacrifice of the captives or learn from Commander Malik Carr the status of the invasion, we will use this moment to reward some of you for the measure of your commitment."

 

The high priest who accompanied Choka rose to his feet and spoke.

 

"We thank the gods for delivering us into this promised domain. May the blood you shed purify and cleanse it for the coming of Supreme Overlord Shimrra. We honor the gods with the nurturing sap that flows within us, so that they might thrive and grant that we might continue to caretake their creations. All we do, we do in emulation and in veneration of them."

 

The priest turned to the cushions that hovered behind Choka and motioned with his hand. The flutters lifted off, exposing four meter-high religious statues. The first represented Yun-Yuuzhan, the Cosmic Lord, absent those parts of himself he had sacrificed to create the lesser gods and the Yuuzhan Vong. The second and third statues represented Yun-Yammka, the Slayer, and Yun-Harla, the Cloaked Goddess. The fourth, and undeniably the most grotesque, was Yun-Shuno, the many-eyed patron deity of the "shamed ones"-those whose bodies had rejected the living implants, due either to a lack of preparation or to ambitious overreaching on the part of the candidate.

 

Choka's subordinate commander now rose.

 

"Subaltern Doshao," he began, "for his actions at the world called Dantooine. Subaltern Sata'ak, for his actions at the world called Ithor. Subaltern Harmae, for his actions at the world called Obroa-skai. And Subaltern Tugorn, both for his work in sowing the world called Belkadan and his actions at the world called Gyndine." He paused briefly, then added, "Step forward and be escalated."

 

As the four lesser-grade officers were ascending the dais, a quartet of implanters scuttled from recesses in the throne. When the candidates had arranged themselves in a line facing the supreme commander, the implanters took up positions behind each of them.

 

A variation on the creature responsible for outfitting captives with crippling growths, the implanters were small, gray, and six-legged. Like their cousins they were equipped with botryoidal optical organs and a quartet of appendages efficient for slicing through flesh and tucking surge-coral into open wounds. But where the calcificator made use of bits of itself, the implanter carried whatever enhancements were necessary for the ritual escalation. Each of the four that began slow climbs up the naked backs of the subalterns bore two finger-length horns of coral, whose pointed tips were slightly hooked.

 

The implanters didn't begin their work until they had secured themselves to the back of the subalterns' necks, from where they could reach to both shoulders. Employing the sharper of their appendages, they made deep cuts through the tops of the shoulder muscles, clear down to the bones that formed part of the ball-and-socket joints. When the incisions were complete and acolytes had collected the flowing blood in bowls, the implanters inserted the hooked horns into the cut, employing a resinous exudate they produced to weld the horns to the shoulder bones and to seal the wounds around them. At the same time, a sluglike ngdin wove a helix trail through the candidates' feet, sopping up whatever blood the acolytes failed to capture.

 

Though perspiration ran freely and legs trembled, not one of the junior officers cried out in pain or so much as grimaced. Pleased with their sangfroid, Choka gestured to four of his aides, who hurried forward with neatly folded and differently colored command cloaks.

 

By then the acolytes had conveyed the blood-filled bowls to the high priest, and while he dribbled the contents of the bowls over the idols, Choka's aides unfolded the cloaks and hung them from the newly implanted hooked protrusions.

 

The drummers beat out a short tattoo, then stopped.

 

"You are escalated and remade," Choka pronounced. "And now that you wear the cloak of command, you will be given your own ships, made sector chiefs, and tasked with overseeing and reeducating the populace of those worlds that constitute your domain."

 

"For the glory of the gods!" warriors and officers alike shouted.

 

Choka watched the promoted warriors step down from the dais, then turned slightly in the direction of Malik Carr. "One more matter before we proceed, Commander." He looked past Malik Carr to where Nom Anor was seated. "Come forward, Executor."

 

More flamboyantly attired than anyone in the hold, Nom Anor rose and walked slowly across the platform. Opposite Nas Choka he inclined his head in a nod. As a member of the intendant caste-though of the lowest rank-he was not obliged to offer salute.

 

"Since you and I do not hail from the same order, I am not entitled to escalate you. But know this, Executor Were I so entitled, I would be more inclined to demote than promote you."

 

Clearly surprised, Nom Anor did not respond, though his mouth twitched several times in rapid succession.

 

"Your actions, Executor, have been closely monitored and widely discussed, and it is the opinion of many in Shimrra's court that you have strayed from your assigned course. First you chose to ally yourself with the Praetorite Vong, who believed they could spearhead an invasion of this magnitude without suffering tragic consequences."

 

"I was not allied with them," Nom Anor said when he could. "My assignment was to destabilize the New Republic in ways I saw fit. That is what I did among the Imperial Moffs, as well as in the Osarian system, and have since done-under different guises-in a half-dozen other systems."

 

Choka shot him a gimlet stare. "Who helped the Praetorite Vong obtain a yammosk-and an imperfect one at that?"

 

Nom Anor swallowed hard. "I may have mentioned something-"

 

"You facilitated them."

 

"Only from a certain point of view."

 

"Don't try your doublespeak on me, Executor. You may have managed to distance yourself from Prefect Da'Gara and the rest by escaping the price they paid for their miscalculation, but you cannot deny engineering the plan that ended in the death of the priestess Elan, daughter of high priest Jakan-who, I might add, is most displeased with you."

 

"There is no proof that Elan or her mascot Vergere are dead. Even so, I can scarcely be held accountable for what happened to them."

 

"You tak e no blame for employing agents who act without orders from their handler?"

 

Nom Anor added force to his voice. "My agents were endeavoring to please me-us-by returning Elan. I had no knowledge of their designs until it was too late."

 

"Is it true that Elan was to have assassinated a number of Jeedai Knights?"

 

"It is."

 

Choka tempered his voice with curiosity. "Why this fascination with the jeedai, Executor? I, for one, am not convinced they pose a serious threat to our conquest."

 

"It is not the Jedi who pose a threat, so much as the Force-the mystical power they embody."

 

"The Force is nothing more than an idea," Choka said loudly, "and the best way to extinguish an idea is by replacing it with a better one, such as we bring."