Darksaber

by Kevin J. Anderson

  "Just take a sip at a time," Wedge said, "and you'll enjoy it."

  Qwi looked at her dessert pastry and spoke distractedly. "You've shown me so many places, Wedge. Maw Installation is still a blur, though I can remember what it was like ... at least since you took me back there. It was much smaller than this place, not so many people. Quiet and private and clean. Everything in its place, regimented, easy to find."

  "But without much freedom," Wedge pointed.

  "I believe you're right," Qwi answered. "Of course, I didn't know that at the time. I didn't know much of anything. You've already given me far more worthwhile memories than I lost,” she said. "There are times when I think Kyp Durron simply removed the bad parts from my brain, leaving room for you to show me more wonders."

  "So you don't think your past will ever come back?" he said.

  "The pieces that are missing are gone," Qwi said, "but those that remain are vivid images, bright pieces that I'm able to connect in my mind. I can string them together, so that it seems like I remember, even though much of it is just my imagination." Qwi stared across at the warehouses, intent on something.

  Wedge watched her. He liked looking at her face, liked seeing her reactions to new things, and it made him see old familiar places with a new eye. He found it refreshing.

  Suddenly Qwi's body went rigid, and she gave an absurd high-pitched whistle as she sucked in a little gasp of air. Qwi stood up too quickly and bumped her drink, spilling the foaming liquid across the tabletop.

  "What is it?" Wedge grabbed for her thin wrist.

  Qwi pointed across at the warehouses. "I just saw him--there! I recognized him."

  "Who?" Wedge said, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

  Qwi had better eyesight than he did--he knew that from long experience--but none of the figures moving toward the warehouses seemed distinctive: an assortment of surly-looking humanoids, a few hardbitten aliens, and a paunchy man, all of whom disappeared into the murky building.

  "I know him," Qwi insisted. "I worked with him. Bevel Lemelisk. We designed the Death Star together. He's here. Why is he here? How could he be here?"

  Wedge held her, and her entire body was trembling. "Come on, Qwi--that couldn't possibly be him." He lowered his voice. "You can't see anything clear enough from here. We were just talking about your old memories. It must have sparked something in you. Don't let your imagination run away with you."

  "But I'm sure it was him," Qwi said.

  "Maybe it was," Wedge answered doubtfully, "but if so, what does it matter? Maw Installation is no longer a threat. The Empire is gone. Maybe he's fallen in with some smugglers."

  Qwi sat down, still troubled. "I don't want to stay here anymore," she said.

  Wedge handed her his drink. "We can share mine. Drink up," he said. "We'll go back to our ship"--then he added with a wry smile—“unless you want to go find one of those Hutt bathhouses I've heard so much about?"

  "No thanks," Qwi said.

  Bevel Lemelisk went with his entourage through the back streets of Nar Shaddaa until they reached the warehouse sector. Lemelisk kept pausing to rub his feet on cleaner patches of the pavement, trying to remove the sticky residue and slime he stepped in every time he averted his eyes from the path.

  The Twi'lek captain drew his blaster and stomped toward an old, ugly warehouse. The towering, corroded door stood locked; giant letters painted across its riveted surface proclaimed Restricted and Trespassers Will be Disintegrated--but then, Lemelisk realized that everything on Nar Shaddaa was restricted, so the warning hardly mattered.

  As they waited for the Twi'lek to access the heavy door, Lemelisk looked around at the brooding, shadowy city. His skin prickled with the creepy feeling that someone was watching him. He turned and looked, but noted nothing out of the ordinary. When the Twi'lek opened the door into the cool and musty-smelling warehouse, Lemelisk ducked down to be the first inside.

  The Twi'lek switched on a bank of glowpanels. One flickered and died, but the remaining four cast their dirty light into the crate-filled warehouse. Cargo containers stood high against the far wall, stenciled with an indecipherable language; many of their sides were cracked and oozed a noxious-looking substance.

  The human copilot gestured to Lemelisk and grunted, taking him to a pair of crates in the center of the room. From the footprints on the dusty floor Lemelisk could tell that the crates had been placed there recently. The wording on their sides marked them as "Sewage Inspection Systems--Quality Control Samples."

  The Gamorrean guards tore open the crates, spilling out the self-digesting packing material and exposing a pair of large computer cores, antique cybernetic systems, slow and long obsolete.

  Lemelisk stifled a laugh. This was the best Sulamar could do with his great Imperial connections? He went forward and brushed at the ID plates scanning for their numbers. These things had been old when Maw Installation was built--but if he had no other choice for the Darksaber ... Lemelisk began to consider the possibilities. It was a challenge, and he liked challenges.

  The computer cores would need extensive modifications and up-grading, but Lemelisk was up to the task. The Darksaber had only a thousandth of the systems the original Death Star had required, without surface defenses or living quarters for a million personnel. The Darksaber only needed to move itself and to fire its weapon--that was all. Even those two tasks might prove daunting for such prehistoric computer cores, but perhaps Lemelisk could make it work.

  As he studied the equipment, the lowlifes behind him suddenly stood at attention. The Gamorrean guards grunted and turned around.

  "Hoo-hoo, will they function, Engineer Lemelisk?" Durga the Hutt asked, emerging from the shadows on his repulsorsled.

  Startled, Lemelisk brushed packing material off of himself and tried to compose his response. "Lord Durga, this is a surprise! I didn't know you'd be here personally."

  "Will they work?" Durga repeated.

  Lemelisk answered cautiously. "They can be made to work. I don't know what Sulamar told you, but these are bottom-of-the-line junk. I believe they can be sufficiently upgraded, though. I'll give it my highest priority."

  "Good," Durga said. "I have made my excuses to the New Republic 's Chief of State and called our diplomatic meeting to an end. I'm anxious to get back and see what progress you have made on my superweapon."

  "I think you'll be pleased, Lord Durga,” Lemelisk said.

  "I had better be," Durga answered. "We will take my own ship back to the asteroid belt," he said. "I want to be where I can watch my Darksaber."

  Lemelisk nodded in full agreement.

  "I'll be happy to get away from Nar Shaddaa," he said, leaning over and whispering conspiratorially to the bloated Hutt. "There are too many unsavory types here!"

  CHAPTER 31

  Piloting the Millennium Falcon with only the assistance of Artoo-Detoo, Chewbacca brought the modified light freighter out of hyperspace as close to the Nal Hutta System as he dared. With the bank of sublight engines flaring white behind them, Chewbacca cruised toward the Smugglers' Moon.

  He had no trouble flying the ship by himself. He had logged enough hours on the Falcon to make most space pilots envious of his experience. But he still felt alone without Han Solo. Long ago Chewbacca had sworn a life debt to the human, and though his obligations had certainly been discharged by now, the Wookiee still considered Han's life to be in his care.

  He had visited Nar Shaddaa with Han more than once, and they had nearly lost their lives.

  Right now Han was in the Hutt System as well, engaged in one of the inexplicable diplomatic rituals that Leia performed, so Chewbacca had accepted his assignment with good grace, eager to poke around and learn what he could about Durga's underhanded activities.

  As Artoo kept track of the in-system traffic, Chewbacca slipped into the flow of other unmarked vessels approaching Nar Shaddaa. The New Republic war-gaming fleet showed up conspicuously on the sensors: large battleships engaged in mock attacks, sho
oting low-powered turbolasers at fake targets.

  Chewbacca watched the blips on the screen. Han was either aboard one of those warships, or down on the big, bruised-looking planet below.

  Artoo warbled in alarm, and Chewbacca snapped his attention back to the piloting controls, avoiding a collision with a large ore freighter that had lumbered into the system.

  Chewbacca couldn't risk contacting Han to inform him that they had arrived. He and Artoo had to remain completely invisible, slipping in as just another anonymous visitor to Nar Shaddaa. They had to find out the real story of the Hutt secret weapon--not the diplomatic lie Durga would likely tell Leia.

  Chewbacca landed the Falcon in one of the astronomically priced docking bays in the grimy heavy-traffic sectors. As Artoo trundled down the boarding ramp, Chewbacca took out decoy beacons, warning lights that signified the Falcon was poison-encased in a deadly protection field. The beacons were fake, of course, but they looked real and eliminated the need to pay the exorbitant protection surcharges many of the docking barons charged, which foolish and unprepared visitors were forced to pay.

  Chewbacca snuffled with his damp nose, detecting the acrid odors of engine coolant, fumes from propellant systems, decaying engines in need of repair, and the bodies of a thousand species mingled with the exotic spiced substances they consumed for nourishment.

  He and Artoo moved purposefully away from the Falcon, plunging into the grease-encrusted, machine-humming metropolis. They had credits to spend and information to buy--and Nar Shaddaa was the place to be.

  Artoo jacked into the nearest "tourist information kiosk"--a thinly disguised directory of available black-market services and vendors.

  The smugglers didn't even try to hide their real activities, though some of the cryptic descriptions seemed ominous indeed.

  Artoo chugged through the electronic listings, searching for anyone willing to provide detailed information about the Hutts--but because Nar Shaddaa was a Hutt-controlled world, those willing to offer such dangerous assistance were extremely few; only one of the information centers listed Durga specifically as a resource.

  Chewbacca attempted to decipher a grid map of the upper levels of the city. He and Artoo spent the better part of an hour tracking down the center connected with Durga and were disappointed to discover in the end that the office was merely a public relations front for the Orko SkyMine Corporation.

  They endured a holographic propaganda presentation about the wonders that Orko SkyMine would bring to the galaxy. When Chewbacca began to ask the toadlike bureaucratic representative about Durga, the assistant flailed his long-fingered hands and curved his fat lips into a smile.

  "You must understand, my Wookiee friend, that all information about Lord Durga's activities is strictly confidential, to protect the identity of Orko SkyMine's largest investors." He blinked his lantern eyes and gave a thick-lipped smile again.

  "However, if you wish to donate a million credits, you could become one such investor and gain access to all of our files." His leathery skin furrowed on his forehead in falsified hope.

  The Wookiee and the little droid left indignantly.

  Chewbacca decided to forgo the black-market services directory and began asking likely-looking vendors on the streets. He went through a hundred credits, bounced from one scrap of information to another--until in a narrow, dim alley he and Artoo finally found a decrepit old slicer whose face was a mass of oozing blemishes and flaking skin. The slicer carried his own portable terminal and a laser welder that he used to cut into the power sources and splice his input cables in!-puter systems, through which he would scrounge for information, undetected for a few hours or a day; then he would slip off to find another place to work.

  The slicer took their credits and didn't seem to care why they wanted information about the Hutts: he merely verified that the money was good and began tapping into the Nar Shaddaa computer systems.

  "No listings," the slicer said. "Nothing for Durga."

  Chewbacca growled a question.

  "I didn't mean there aren't any," the slicer said, speaking through swollen lips and scowling at his keyboard. "I just can't find the files. They must be coded or passworded. No way I could get at them, unless I knew exactly what they were."

  Artoo gave a disappointed whistle.

  "Wait a minute--let's stand this on its head," the slicer said, rubbing a finger along his lower lip, causing even more skin to fall off. He squinted his beady eyes in the dimness. "I was looking for files about Durga, but let's do a broader-based search, track down anybody who's selling things to Durga." His fingers, though scabbed with sores and armored with calluses, flew over the keypad. A blur of numbers scrolled up, and the slicer began cackling. He held out his hands for more credits. Chewbacca growled, but willingly paid, hoping the information would be good.

  "I've found a major customer for Durga,” the slicer said, then lowered his voice. His words came out in a whisper. "An Imperial customer."

  Before Chewbacca could growl a new query, another bulky creature strode into the mouth of the alley: a large cylindrical torso surrounded by waving tentacles and eye stalks protruding from the top. A gurgling alien voice came from the creature's mouth orifice.

  "I'm busy," the slicer said. "Can't you see I got a customer? Come back later, and I'll be happy to run a search."

  But the tentacled creature insisted on its answers now and lunged forward, flailing its tentacles threateningly, as if it wanted to lash the slicer into submission.

  Chewbacca roared and stood up tall, his tan fur bristling. He grappled with the alien creature and, after a short brawl, managed to tie five of its tentacles into knots. With a grunt, the Wookiee sent the moaning, impatient creature on its way down the street, where it stumbled along burbling for assistance in untying its tentacles.

  Chewbacca squatted next to the slicer and motioned for him to continue. "Yes, an Imperial customer, somebody selling to Durga," the slicer said. "It's a major expenditure: computer cores, powerful ones. I can't imagine what a Hutt would need them for. Especially such old models."

  Chewbacca, feeling exhilarated after the scuffle, listened intently.

  "The man's name is a General Sulamar, apparently working with the Hutts. He is somehow connected with Imperial deserters, people who left the service of the Empire and went into business for themselves. According to these files," the slicer continued, tapping the screen, "this Imperial General Sulamar is the big boss in charge of everything the Hutts do around here.”

  "If that's true, they've kept it a secret from me," the slicer said, raising his eyebrows. More dead skin flaked off and fell to the ground.

  "Durga is supposedly just a minor partner in the operation," he cackled.

  Artoo whistled a question, and Chewbacca reinforced it.

  "Who is this Sulamar?" the slicer asked.

  "Is that what you want to know? He doesn't hide his credentials. In fact, he types them all in capital letters, claims to be an Imperial military genius. Takes all responsibility for the Massacre of Mendicat. Calls himself the Scourge of Celdaru."

  Chewbacca groaned. He paid the slicer again, then stood up, gesturing for the droid to follow him. He strode along on long, hairy legs as Artoo hurried to keep up. The little droid whistled anxiously, squealing his alarm. They had to get back to the Falcon where they could pass their news to Coruscant. They had learned more than they had ever expected to.

  Chewbacca felt a bestial rage rising within him as he considered the ominous possibilities. If the Empire and the Hutts had indeed teamed up, they would make a formidable enemy.

  This threat was far worse than they had feared.

  CHAPTER 32

  Standing on the auxiliary command deck of the Galactic Voyager, General Crix Madine, Supreme Allied Commander for Special Forces, studied the screen that showed the bright green tracer he had planted on Durga's private ship. He scratched his brown beard and watched his best female commando, Trandia, double-check the readings.<
br />
  "Still hasn't moved, sir," Trandia said.

  She had long strawberry blond hair knitted into a complex braid that hung neatly at her back, pretty but serviceable--Madine suspected she let it hang loose while she was off duty. Her face was scrubbed clean and flushed with concentration as her blue eyes stayed riveted on the computer.

  "He departed from Nal Hutta several hours ago, sir, and landed on the Smugglers' Moon. No word since. We could contact the Yavaris,” Trandia suggested. "General Antilles has taken some time off to visit the moon. Perhaps he could keep an eye out."

  Madine shook his head. "Too dangerous. We have the tracer planted, and Durga suspects nothing. Let's just see where he goes. The Chief of State says he ended their meeting rather abruptly, so he must be on his way back to his hiding place. We'll find it. Be patient."

  Madine wandered across the auxiliary command chamber. There were no windows to stare through, only status screens. The secondary bridge was designed to function as an alternate bridge if the Star Cruiser's main forward compartments were somehow put out of commission. Madine paced restlessly, anxious to do something.

  A driven man, he had given his utmost strength and imagination to the New Republic for the past nine years, ever since he had defected from the Imperial military. He felt good to be working with the Rebel Alliance, a cause he could believe in--and the more he devoted himself to serving the New Republic , the more Madine could distract himself from the lingering guilt that still had not gone away.

  Long ago he had given an oath to uphold Palpatine's New Order and to serve the Emperor, and he had meant it. Crix Madine did not give oaths lightly, nor had he ever broken one before his defection. He hoped he never had to make such a conscience-rending decision again.

  At one time his future had seemed golden with the Empire. His rank increased on a fast track, indicating important things to come. Madine had been given heavy responsibilities, remarkable accolades, medals, and citations. The Emperor himself had commented upon his brilliance and impeccable service.