Jedi Eclipse

by James Luceno

  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 flimsiplast; 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 their 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-11, 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 pa
y 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.